LITTELLS LIVING AGE. From the British Quarterly Review. ~1.) The Bakerian Lecture for 1828. On a Method of rend ing Piatina malleable. By W. H. WOLLASTON, M.D., V.P.R.S. (2.) Philosophical Transactions for 1829. A Description of a Microscopic Doublet; On a Method of Comparing the Li~ ht of the Sun with that of the Fi ed Stars; On the Water of the Mediterranean. By W. H. WOLLASTON V.P.R.S. YVILLIAM HVDE WOLLASTON, one of the ablest I and most renowned of English chemists and natu- ral philosophers, was born August 6, 1766, and died in December, 1828. Seventeen years have passed away since his death, and yet no biography has appeared, although he has as wide a reputation amon,, men of science as Sir Humphrey Davy, of whom lives innumerable have been written. This has in part arisen from the comparatively retired life which Wollaston led, and the reserve and austerity of his character. He was not, like his gr3at contemporary, a public lecturer to a highly popular institution, and thereby an object of inter- est, not only to men of science, but likewise to students of literature, and even to people of fash- ion. His life was spent in his laboratory, from ~vhich even his intimate friends were excluded; and the reselts of his labors were made known only by essays, published for the most part in the Transac- tions of the Royal Society of London. is dis- coveries, however, were so many, and of e impor- tant a kind, and made his name so wide known, that we cannot but wonder that no hi raphy of him has yet appeared. Two of his olications, the one containing the description of reflecting goniometer, the other explaining process by which platina r ay be rendered m cable, would alone have cot ed Wollaston to a ace in the roll of natural ph sophers worthy of engthened re- membrance. u ad he been a German, some patient, painstaking fellow-countryman would long ago have put on record all that could be learned con- cerning his personal history. I-lad he been a Frenchman, an eloquent Dumas or Arago would have read his eloge to the assembled men of science of the French capital, in language acceptable to the most learned, and intellicible to the most tin- scientific of men. His fate as an Englishman is, to have his memory preserved (otherwise than by his own works) only by one or two meagre and unauthenticated sketches, which scarcely tell more than that he was born, lived some sixty years, pub- lished certain papers, and died. With the exception of some faint and imperfect glimpses of an austere taciturn solitary, perfecting wonderful discoveries in a laboratory hermetically sealed against all intruders, we learn almost nothing of the individuality of the worker. A few anec- dotes, incidentally preserved in the lives of some of his contemporaries, contain nearly all that has een published concerning his personal history. CXXV. LiVING AGE. VOL. Xi. I We have been informed that, soon after Wollas- tons death, all the documents and materials neces- sary for his biography were placed in the hands of a gentleman well qualified for the task of writing it. The expected work, however, has not appear- ed, and, so far as we are aware, no progress has been made towards its production. We trust that the idea of publishing a life of Wollaston has not been abandoned, and that we shall yet see his per- sonal history placed on permanent record. Meanwhile, we think we shall do our readers a service, by bringing before them such a sketch of the philosopher, as the scanty materials at our dis- posal enable us to furnish. Imperfect and frag- mentary as it necessarily is, it will give them some idea of a very remarkable man. An experienced crystallographer can tell from a few sandlike grains, or a single detached and rounded angle, that the crystal of which they once were parts was a per- fect cube, a many-sided prism, or a symmetrical pyramid. The geologist can infer from a tooth or claw much concerning the whole animal to which it belonged. We trust that our readers will in like manner be able to piece our biographical fragments together into one entire and perfect chrysolite ; and that they will find the palnontologists guiding mottoes, Ex ungue Leonem, Ex pede Her- culem, lead them to the conclusion that they are dealing with one of the me oat hen science. Hyde a among men of William Wollaston belonged to a Stafford- shire family, distinguished for several generations by their successful devotion to literature and science. His great-grandfather, the Rev. William Wollast n, was author of a work famous in its day, entitled, The Reli,ion of Nature Delineat- ed. His father, the Rev. Francis Wollaston, of Chiselhnrst, in Kent, from his own observations, made an extensive catalogue of the northern cFr- cumpolar stars, which, with an account of the in- struments employed, and tables for the r. inductions, was published under the title of Faseit ulus As- tronomicus, in 1800. The subject of our memoir v is the se ond son of the astronomer, and of Alt ca Hyde, f Char- ter-house square, London. Le was one of seven- teen children, and was born at East Dereham, a village some sixteen miles from Norwich on the 6th of August, 1766. After the usual preparatory education, he went to Cambridge, and entered at Caius College, where he made great progress. In. several of the sketches published of him, he is. said to have been senior wrangler of his year ; but this is a mistake, arising out of the fact, that person of the same surname, Mr. Francis Wolla ton, of Sidney Sussex College, gained time first placc in 1783. Dr. Wollaston did not graduate in arts, hut took the degree of M.B. in 1787, and that of M.D. in 1793. He became a fellow of Caius College soon after taking his degree, and continued one till his death. At Cambridge he resided till 1789, and astronomy appears to have been hit 10 favorite study there, although there is evidence to show that at this time, as at a later period, he was very catholic in his scientific tastes. He probably inherited a predilection for the study of the heaven- ly bodies from his father, and it was increased by his intimacy with the late astronomer royal of Dnblin, Dr. Brinkley, now l3ishop of Cloyne, and with Mr. Pond, formerly astronomer royal of Greenwich, with whom he formed a friendship at Cambridge which lasted through life. In 1Th9, he settled at Bnry St. Edmunds, in Suffolk, and commenced to practise as a physician, but with so little success, probably on account of the peculiar gravity and r3serve of his manner, that he soon left. the place and removed to London. He succeeded, however, no better in the metropolis. Soon after reaching it, a vacancy occurred in St. Georges Hospital, and Wollaston became candi- date for the office of physician there. The place was gained, however, by his principal opponent, Dr. Pemberton, who, it is said, either by superior interest, or, as is commonly supposed, by his more pleasing and polished manners, obtained the situa- tion. It is added in several of the notices of Wollasten, that on hearing of his failure, in a fit of pique, he declared that he would abandon the profession, and never more write a prescription, were it for his own father. This statement must be received with hesitation. So staid and sedate a person as Wollaston was, is not likely to have given utterance to the hasty and intemperate ex- pressions attributed to him; and so prudent a man would not have bound himself by a rash vow to abandon his profession, unless he had seen the prospect of occupying himself more pleasantly and profitably in another way. This account, indeed, is in direct contradiction to another; which is so far authentic, and entitled to greater credibility, that it is contained in the report of the council of the Astronomical Society of Great Britain, pre- sented at the anniversary meeting in 1829. In the otituary notice of Wollaston given in that report, it is mentioned, that he continued to practise in London till the end of the year 1800, when an ac- cession of fortune determined him to relinquish a profession he never liked, and devote himself wholly to science lie had no occasion to rc~ret the change even in pecuniary point of vi w the only one in which ~his abandonment of m~dicme was likely to have injured him. His process for rendering crude platina malleable, xx nich confuted so great a ser- vice on analytical chemistry is said to have brought him more then thirty thousand pounds, and he is alleged to have e ido money by several of his minor (liseoveries a mx entions. The renmeinder of Vollastons life must be re- ferred to in terms like mo those in which the sacred writer of the Book of Chronicles finishes his brief record of each Jewish king: Now the rest of ~ms acts and his deeds first and last are written in the book of the kings of Israel and Judab. What the boolt of the Jexvish kings is to their lives, the archives and records of the Royal Society are to our scientific men. Dr. Wollaston became a fellow of that society in 1793, and was made second sec- retary in 1800. He was for many years vice-pres- ident, and in 1820, between the death of Sir J. Banks and the election of Sir H. Davy, he occu- pied the presidents chair. There xvere not a few, indeed, a~nong the influential members of the soci- ety, who would have preferred him to Davy as permanent chairman; but Wollaston having signi LIFE OF WOLLASTON. fled his fixed intention to decline competition, gave the whole weight of his influence to Davy, and the latter was elected. His communications to the Royal Society are thirty-nine in number, and, along with his contri- butions to other scientific journals, refer to a greater variety of topics than those of any other English chemist, not excepting Cavendish. In addition to essays on strictly chemical subjects, they includ& papers on important questions in astronomy, optics, mechanics, acoustics, mineralogy, crystallography, physiology, pathology, and botany, besides one on a question connected with the fine arts, and several describing mechanical inventions. We shall endeavor to give the reader some idea of certain of the more important of these papers, discussing them, hoxvever, not in their chronological order, but according to a classified list. Five are on questions of physiology and pathol- ogy, and do not admit of popular discussion. TIme most curious of these is a paper on Semni-decus- sation of the optic nerves, and single vision with txvo eyes. Besides its interest as a scientific essay, it is important as having been occasioned by specu- lations concerning the cause of a remarkable form of blindness from which Wollaston suffered, during xvhieh he saw only half of every object, the loss of sight being in both eyes towards the heft, and of short duration only. This peculiar state of vision proved in the end to have been symptomatic of a disease of the brain, of which he died. Eight or nine papers are on optics, but our limits will not allow us to discuss them. Wollaston published two papers on astronomy, one On a Method of Comparin5 time Light of the Sun with that of the Fixed Stars, of which we can only give the title; the other is, 0mm the Finite Extent of the Atmosphere, amid is one of the most interesting physical essays on record. It was published in January, 1822, in the May pre- ceding which, a transit of Yenus over time suns disk tool place. Wollaston was induced in conse- quence o uake observatiorms on this rare and inter- esting pi omenon. Nomme of time larger observa- tories wem rirovided with suitable instruments for watchin0 ii but our philosopher, with that singu- lar ingenuit both in devising and in constrt.cting apparatus my Ix we shall afterwards find to have been one of I great characteristic succeeded by a few happy c~ rivances imi makin a small tele- scope complete serve the purpos His special object iii watching the passage of ~nus, was to ascertain xvhether or not the sun has ~. atmosphere like that of the carth. He satisfied tmimself that. it has not, and eumbodied his results in the paper, time title of which we have given. It is a very curious attempt to decide a most diffi- cult chemical problem by reference to an astronom- ical fact. Time chenmical question is, do the elenierits of compounds consist of indivisible particles, or mitoins, or do they not l It is a branch of the great oroblem which has occupied physics and metaphys- ics since the dawn of speculation, in vain attemrmpts to decide either way, viz., is matter finitely or in- finitely divisible Our author undertakes mo show. not only that this difficulty irmay be solved, but that in fact it was solve(l, though mine one was aware of it, as early as the discovery of time telescope, and Gahile& s first observation of thie eclipses of J upitefs moons. His mode of reasoning is as follows. If our air consist of an infinite ummimber of particles, then s these are known to be self-repulsive, there can be LIFE OF WOLLASTON. 11 no limit to the amount of its expansion. It will spread out into space, on every side, and be found surrounding each of the heavenly bodies. If, on the other hand, the atmosphere consist of a finite number of molecules or atoms, it will find a limit at no great distance from the earth. For the force of repulsion between the atoms will rap- idly diminish as they recede from each other, till it become insufficient to oppose the counteracting force of gravity. The air will then cease to expand, and present a row of bounding molecules, prevented from falling towards the earth by the repulsion of the particles between it and them, and from reced- ing from the earth by their own weight. The con- clusion from this reasoning is, Lhat if astronomy can show that any one of the heavenly bodies has not an atmosphere of the same nature as ours, chemistry will be entitled, and indeed compelled, to infer, first, that our atmosphere, and then that all matter, consists of finitely divisible particles or true atoms. The ns~onomical problem is easily and speedily solved. 1~ .e moon is too near us, to permit of ob- servations of the necessary kind beitig made, as to her possession of an atmosphere similar in consti- tution to ours; but according to telescopic observa- tion, she is a naked globe. The phenomena pre- sented when Venus or MerL ury passes close to the sun, certify that he has no atmosphere like that of the earth; but his high temperature, and its possi- ble effect on an atmosphere, if he have one, some- what lessen the value of the fact. Jupiter, how- ever, and his five moons, admit of observations which make it certain that our a& ial envelope has not reached to that heavenly body.* When his satellites suffer eclipse by passing behind him, they appear to a spectator on the earth, to move across his disk till they reach its edge, xvhen they instanta- neously disappear. When they reappear, after moving roun(1 him, they emerge in a moment from behind his body, and start at once into full view. Had Jupiter an atmosphere like ours, the occulta- tion of his satellites xvould not occur as it is ob- served to do. Our sun, when lie sinks below the horizon, remains visible to us by the light bent up or refracted to our eyes, through the transparent air, and twilight slowly darkens into night. In like manner, long before the rising sun would be seen, if our globe were naked, the air sends up his rays to our eyes, and he becomes visible. If Jupiter had an atmosphere like that of the earth, each of his moons, instead of (hisappearing at once behind his disk, xvould exhibit a twilight recession, and slowly wane away. When it returned, it would be seen much sooner, after being lost sight of~ than it is at present, and would gradually wax brighter and brighter till it came fully into view. In other words, the atmosphere of Jupiter would send back the licrht of the satellite to us, after the latter dis- appeared behind the planet; and would send for- ward that light before the moon reappeared. Wol- laston shows that, in the case last supposed, the fourth satellite would never be eclipsed, but would remain visible when at the very back of the planet. * The reader will observe that the argument is based, not on the fact of the heavenly bodies lacking atmos- pheres which some of them umay possess, but on their wanting atemospheret of the seine nature as ours. We cannot apply chemistry to ascertain whether oxygen and nitr%en, or the other gases of our atmosphere, envelope distant globes; but we can bring optics to discover whether a power to refract light such as our air possesses, exists around any of these sjheres. From the text it will be seen that no such power has been observed in any case. It is certain, then, that the earths atmosphere is limited, and according to Wollaston it is equally sure that matter is only finitely divisible. The paper we are discussing excited great atten- tion among men of science; and for a long period, though few implicitly assented to the validity of the argument, no one appeared able to detect any fallacy in its reasoning. It was commented on by Faraday, Graham, Turner, and Daubeny. as an im- portant contribution to chemistry; and referred to by Dumas as the only attempt which had been made in modern times to decide by physics the question of the finite or infinite divisibility of matter. More recently, it has been shown that the fact that the atmosphere is limited will not justify the conclusion which Wollaston deduced from it. It has been suggested by Dumas, following out the views of Poisson, that the low temperature which is known to prevail in the upper regions of the atmosphere, may be such at its botmudary as to destroy the elasticity of the air, and even to con- dense it into a liquid or freeze it into a solid. Tho outer envelope of our atmosphere is thus supposed to be a shell of frozen air. If this view be just, our atmosphere is limited, not because it consists of atoms, but simply because a great cold prevails in its upper regions. Professor Whewell has shown that Wollaston was not entitled to assume that the law which cot- nects the density of the air with the compressing force is the same at the limit of the atmosphere, as it is near the surface of the earth. He suggests a different law which may prevail, and which would terminate the atmosphere without the a~sumption of atoms. Lastly, it has been pointed out, that though all Wollastons postulates were granted him, they would only entitle him to infer that the atmosphere consists of a finite number of repelling molecules. To establish this, is to establish nothing. We are still on the threshold of the argument. Each mole- cule supplies as good a text whereon to discuss the question of divisibility, as the whole atmosphere out of which it was taken. The point which most of all demanded proof, miamely, that the molecule was an atom, was the very one which Wollasmon took for granted. Beautiful, then, and certain as are the astro- nomical facts brought to light by Wollaston, they supply no decision of the question of the divisibility of matter. That problem still presents the same two-fold aspect of difficulty which it has ever ex- hibited. If we affirm that matter is infinitely divisible, we assert the apparent contradiction, that a finite whole contains an infinite number of parts. If, pressed by this difficulty, we seek to prove that the parts are as finite as the whole they make tip, we fail in omir attempt. We can never exhibit the finite factors of omir finite whole ; and the so-called atom always proves as divisible as the mass out of which it was extracted. Finity and infinity must both be believed in ; but here, as in other de- partments of knowledge, we cannot reconcile them. The greater number of Wollastons strictly chemical papers, with the exception of those refer- ring to physiology and pathology, are devoted to the exposition of points connected with the chemis- try of the metals. He was the discoverer of palla- dium and rhodium, once interesting only as chemi- cal curiosities, but now finding important uses in the arts. He discovered, also, the identity of colwmbium and tantalum. He was the first to re 12 LIFE OF WOLLASTON. cognize the existence of metallic titanium in the slags of iron furnaces; and he is the deviser of the important process by which platina is rendered malleable. He published, also, analyses of me- teoric iron, and showed that potash exists in sea water. The majority of the essays in which these dis- coveries were made known, are of too limited and technical a character to admit of notice in the pages of our journal. There is one of them, however, that, on a process by which platina may be ren- dered malleable, which cannot he dismissed with- out a word of explanation. It must seem curious to a general reader, that much value should be attached to a mere metallur- gical process, however ingenious. He will be furher perplexed by learning that the Royal So- ciety, passing over Wollastons claims to reward, as the author of important speculative, and purely scientific papers, selected this essay as the object of their special commendation. The strong words used by the council of the society are, Your council have deemed themselves bound to express their strong approbation of this interesting memoir by awarding a royal medal to its author, and they anticipate with confidence a general approbation of what they have done. It may help the reader to understand why the paper in question is esteemed so highly if he be made aware of the following facts. Among other bodies which the alchemists of the middle ages thought it possible to discover, and accordingly sought after, was a Universal Solvent, or Aikahcst as they named it. This imaginary fluid was to possess the power of dissolving every substance, whatever its nature, and to reduce all kinds of matter to the liquid form. It does not seem to have occurred to these ingenious dreamers to consider, that what dissolved everything, could be preserved in nothing. Of what shall we con- struct the vessel in which a fluid is to be kept, which hungers after all things, and can eat its way through adamant as swiftly as water steals through walls of ice A universal solvent must require an equally universal non solubile in which it may be retaule(i for use. The modern chemists desire has lain in the opposite dii:ection from that of his alchemical fore- father. It is the non solubile, not the solvent, that he has sought after, and Wollaston supplied him with that in tualleable platina. Long before the close of last century, the chemical analyst found the reiigents he had occasion to make use of, alka- bests or universal solvents enough, for the vessels in which he could contain them. For the greater number of purposes, glass and porcelain resist suf- ficiently the action of even the strongest acids, alkalies, and other powerful solvents. In some cases, however, they are attacked by these, and Cannot be employed in accurate analysis. When- ever, moreover, it is necessary to subject bodies to a high temperature along with active reagents, as, fur example, in the fusion of minerals with alka- lies, porcelain can seldom be employed, and is often worse than useless. It was in vain that chemists had recourse to sil- ver and gold, as substitutes for the insufficient clay in the construction of their crucibles. These metals melt at comparatively low temperatures, and, before a sufficient heat can be attained to fuse the moore refractory substances enclosed in them, they run into liquids, and the crucible and its con- tents are lost in a useless slag. In consequence of this insufficiency of his tools, the analytical chemist was brought to a complete stand. Whole departments of his science lay around him unexplored and unconquered, tempting him by their beauty and their promise. He could only, however, fold his arms and gaze wistfully at them, like a defeated engineer before a city which his artillery and engines have failed to sub- due. It was at this crisis that Wollaston came for- ward to put a new weapon into the hands of the chemical analyst. Several years before he ttirned his attention to the subject, scattered grains of a brilliant metal had been found in the sands of cer- tain of the South American rivers. To this, from its resemblance to silver, or in their language plata, the Spaniards gave the name of platina, or little silver. This metal was found to resist the action of nearly every subsmaiice except aqua regia ; to stiffer no change, nor to become rusted by pro- tracted exposure to the atmosphere; and to be perfectly infusible by the most powerful forge or furnace. Here then was a substance for the chemists crucible, could a method of working it only he dis- covered. But the very properties which made its value certain, if it were wrought into vessels, for- bade its being easily fashioned into them. It occurred in nature only in small grains which could not be melted, so that it was impossible, as with most other metals, to convert it into utensils by fusion. Neither was it possible by hammering to consolidate the grains into considerable masses, so that vessels could be beaten out of them, for the crude metal is very impure. Accordingly, it hap- pened, that for years after the value of platirta had been discovered, it could not be turned to account. Whole cargoes of the native metal, although it is now six times more costly than silver, are said to have lain unpurchased for years in London, be- fore Wollaston devised his method of work- ing it. That method was founded upon the property which platina possesses of agglutinating at a high temperature, though not melted, in the way iron does, so that, like that metal, it can be welded, and different pieces forged into one. This propei ty cotild not, however, be directly applied to the native grains owing to their impurity and irregu- larity in form. Wollaston commenced by dissolving the metal in aqua regia ; purified it whilst in solution from the greater numh~r of accompanying substances which alloyed it; and then, by the addition of sal ammoniac, precipitated it as an insoluble compound with chlorine and muriate of ammonia. When this compound was heated, these bodies were dissi- pated in vapor, and left the platina in the state of a fine black powder, which was further purified by washing with water. it was only further necessary to fill a proper mould with this powder well moistened, and to subject it to powerful compression. By this pro- cess the powder cohered into a tolerably solid mass, which was gently heated by a charcoal fire, so as to expel the moisture and give it greater tenacity. It was afterwards subjected to the in- tensest heat of a wind furnace, and hammered while hot, so as completely to agglutinate its parti- cles, and convert it into a solid ingot. This ingot or bar could then he flattened into leaf, drawn into wire, or submitted to any of the processes by which the most ductile metals are wrou~ht. LTFE OF WOLLASTON. 13 We have passed over unnoticed many practical There are no bodies, perhaps, more intcresting ininutire essential to the success of Wollastons to a greater number of persons than crystals. The process. The reader is more concerned to know rarer native ones which we name gems, rank with that the platina crucible has been one of the chief the precious metals in expressing by the smallest causes of the rapid improvement which chemistry bulk the greatest commercial valtie. The precious has recently undergone, and that it is an indispen- stones have been hallowed in the minds of many sable instrument in the laboratory. The costliness from their earliest days, by the terms in which of the metal has not forbidden its application to they are alluded to in the Bible. The lavish use manufacturing operations even on the largest scale. made of them in adorning the dress of the Jewish In the oil of vitriol works, stills of platina are high priest; the manifold references to them in the made use of for distilling sulphuric acid, each of books of the prophets, and in the more impassioned whih, though holding only a few gallons, costs writings of the Old Testament; and most of all above a thousand pounds. A coinage of platina the striking and magnificent way in which they are was introduced into the Russian dominions, which referred to by St. John as types of the glories of possess valuable supplies of its ores; but though the world to come, must satisfy even the most roubles and other coins struck in it, occasionally careless reader of the Scriptures, that God has reach this country as curiosities, we understand marked them out as emblems of indestructibility, that the coinage has been withdrawn by the im- rarity, worth, beauty, and purity. Their appro- penal government, in consequence of the fluctu- priateness for this purpose must strike every one. atious that occur in the value of the metal. The painter has counted it a triumph of his art to In our own country, from the great consump- mutate even imperfectly their colors and brilliancy. tion of platina in chemical processes, its value has Poets have all loved to sing of them. Beauty, in rapidly risen even within the last few months; but every age and clime, barbaric and civilized, how- it is constantly shifting.* Nothing but its rarity ever much she has loved caprice in other things, and costliness prevent its application to the con- and has complained of ennui and satiety, seems struction of every kind of culinary vessel, for never to have tired of her rubies and emeralds, or which its purity, cleanliness, and enduriogness to have grown weary of admiring her family especially fit it. A thousand other uses would be diamonds. found for it, if it were more abundant. And if the symbolical, aesthetical, fictitious and Were it now the custom to honor men after commercial value of crystals has been great, their death according to the fashion of the Greeks and worth to tbe man of science has not been small. Romans, ~,Vollastons ashes would be consigned to The mineralogist counts them the most precious a gigantic platina crucible, as to a befitting and im- treasures of his cabinet. The geologist defines arid perishable sepulchral urn, marks out rocks by them. The electrician has de- His other chemical papers are all important. tected curious phenomena by means of their ai& One of them, on the chemical production and The investigator of the laws of heat finds them of agency of electricity, proved, by singularly inge- indispensable service in studying his subject. The nious and beautiful experiments, that identity of optician is indebted to them for the greatest gene- voltaic and friction electricity, which Faraday has ralization of his science, and for the discovery of since confirmed by still inure decisive trials. The many of its most delightful, though most intricate others had reference chiefly to the atomic theory, departments. Recently they have been declared which Wollaston was a great means of introducing to present remirkable and hitherto unsuspected re- to the favorable notice of chemists. One was On lations to magi ~ttism. The chemist considers a superacid and subacid salts, and contained one of knowledge of crystallography absolutely requisite, the earliest and most convincing proofs ~vhich can not merely as enabling him to identify substances be given of the existence of such a law of multiple without the trotible of analyzing them, but likewise proportion, as Dalton had announced. The other as unfolding analogies of e greatest importance on A synoptical scale of chemical equivalents, in relation to the classification of chemical com- first brought the laws of combination within the pounds. Medical men have discovered that, in reach of the student and manufacturer, many dangerous disorders, crystals show them- Wollaston published three papers on the shapes selves in the fluids of the body, and now study of crystals, and on the mode of measuring them. their shapes with the utmost care as a means of No branch of science is less inviting to the general detecting and alleviating disease. Finally, the student than, crystallography. Nevertheless, we greatest mathematicians have cotunted it a worthy must be allowed to refer briefly to one of Wollas- occupation to investigate the forms and geometni- tons essays on that subject. The most superficial cal relations of crystals. We need only remind sketch of the philosopher whose works we are con- our scientific readers of the labors of Huyghens, sidering, would be inexcusably defective if it Young, Fresnel, Arago, Bre~vster, Sir William passed it by. Hamilton of Dublin, Herschel, Mohs, Weiss, The paper we refer to is entitled, Description Mitscherlieh, Faraday, not to mention a multitude of a reflective goniometer, and, next to that con- of others, to satisfy them that we have not over- taming the account of the platina process, is per- stated matters. The undulatory hypothesis of haps Wollastons most important contribution to light, the laws of its double refraction, and those science. It is much more difficult, ho~vever, to of its polarization, have been suggested or dis- convey an idea of its value, than it was in the case covered by observations with crystals. The same of that essay. remark applies to the laws of the radiation and polarixation of heat, and with limitations might be * Platuna costs at present, in the state of ingot or bar, extended to~ other branches of natural philoso- from 30s. to 35s. per ounce, wholesale. Manufactured phy. There is not, indeed, a single physical artictes from 3ils, to 42s. per ounce, also whotesale. The science which has not an interest in crystallog- retail prices are from 5s. to lOs. higher. Virgin sitrer sells at 5s. 3d. per ounce, wholesale; at Os. per ounce raphy. retal, when manufactured. Sterling silver iS worth 4s From this brief statement it will appear, that lid, per ounce. nearly every class of scientific men was certain to LTFF OF WOLLASTON. gain by the invention of an instrument, which prom- ised greatly to facilitate, and to render more ac- curate, the study of crystals. We will not say that the poet, the painter, or the beauty owed Wol- liston any thanks. They did not, at least, irnme- diately; hut in the end it may appear, and it would i~ot perhaps be difficult to demonstrate, that they are all gainers by the progress of science. We re- turn, however, to the reflective goniometer. A goniometer, as its name implies, (ywida, an angle, ~hQov, a measure,) is an instrument for measuring angles. The appellation, though sus- ceptible, of course, of much wider application, is restricted to an apparatus for measuring the angles of crystals. Different goniometers were in use be- fore VitTollaston invented his, but they were com- paratively rude, and could only be applied to large crystals. This limitation of their employment was doubly disadvantageous. Many substances can be obtained only in minute crystals. In every case, small crystals are ceteris paribus more perfect than large ones. Wollastons instrument not only ap- plied to very diminutive crystals, but gave more ac- curate results the smaller the crystal was, provided only it were visible. It was able to do this from the peculiarity of its principle, which lies in this, that instead of measuring the angle formed by the meeting of two faces of a crystal directly, it mea- sures the angle formed by the meeting of rays of light reflected from them. It requires, in conse- quence, only that the crystal shall be large enough to have visible faces, and that these shall he suffi- ciently smooth to reflect light. When Wollaston published the account of his gonioineter, he stated as an evidence of its superi- ority to those previously in use, that whereas a certain angle of Iceland spar was reputed to be of one hundred and four degrees, twenty-eight min- utes, forty seconds, it was in reality of one hundred and five degrees. It cannot but seem surprising that it should be of interest to a minuralogist or chemist, to know that the angle of a crystal is by half a degree greater or smaller than it has been supposed to be. The imporlance of the observation arises out of the fact, that a great number of suhstances which as- sume the solid form affect perfectly regular shapes, or, as we say, crystallize. The figures which they thus present are not inconstant and uncertain, but, within prescribed and narrow limits, are perfectly fixed and invariable. Common salt, for example, the greater number of the metals, and many other bodies, when they occur as crystals, show them- selves as cubes, or solid six-sided figures, with all the faces squares, and all the angles right angles. The well-known doubly-refracting Iceland spar (carbonate of lime) crystallizes in an equally regu- lar and perfect, but different shape. Its crystals are six-sided but the faces are rhomlis, or resem- ble the diamond on a pack of cards, and its angles are not right angles. From extended observations on the crystalline shapes of bodies, the important law has been generalized, that the same chemical compound always assumes, with the utmost pre- cision, the same geometrical form. This enun- ciation of the law must be accepted with certain important qualifications and exceptions, which our ~ iits do not permit us to dwell upon. This one ~ nint, h& wever, we are anxious to explain: the constancy of form affirmed to exist in crystals does a at manifest itself in equality of the sides or faces ~ f the figures, but in the equality of the angles. It is tlte angle, therefore, and not the face of a crystal, which is important, the latter may vary, the former must not; hence the value of a goniometer, or angle measurer. Again, many crystals have the same general shape. A very common form, for example, is an octahedron, or double four-sided pyramid, ar- ranged, like two Egyptian pyramids placed base to base. But though the general configuration is similar, the angles at which the faces of the pyra- mids incline towards each other are different in dif- ferent substances, and distinguish each crystal from all its fellows. Yet the differences in angular in- clination, though constant, are often very small; hence the importance of the reflective goniometer, as enabling the observer to detect the slightest dif- ference in angular value between apparently simi- lar crystals. For the trouble of a tedious analysis, and the sacrifice of perhaps a rare substance, we are thus frequently able to substitute the simple device of measuring the angle of its crystals. The fact has a general interest, also. To the law which the goniometer has discovered, we are indebted, for the exquisite symmetry and perfection of shape which make crystals, like flowers, delight- ful objects merely to gaze at. They may he crushed to fragments, or dissolved in fluids, or liquefied by heat, or dissipated in vapor, hut they grow up again like trees from their roots, or flow- ers from their seeds, and exhibit their old shapes with a fidelity and exactitude of resemblance, which no tree or flower ever showed or can show. We heard much of the restoration of the recumbent wartiors in the Temple church of London, and still more of the skill shown in piecing together the broken fragments of the Portland vase; but all such restorations are poor and faint imitations of the art, with which nature not only restores but re- produces the works of her chisel. Were all the crystals in the world reduced to dust, in good time they would each reappear. The painter and the poet would not only find the tints, and play of color, and sparkle, exactly as be- fore, but the mathematician would try in vain to discover the smallest fractional difference in the value of their angles. Unity in variety is the voice of all nature; but in the case of crystals, the unity almost pushes the variety aside. To descend from these speculations, the reader will understand, that as every crystallizable sub- stance has an unchangeable form peculiar to itself, the crystalline figure of a body is an important character by which it may be recognized and iden- tified. But this is the lesser service which the reflective goniometer has rendered to science. Early in this century, a great German chemist, Mitscberlich, com- paring the results obtained by Wollastons instru- ment, with those procured by analysis, in the case of crystalline bodies. discovered a very curious and unexpected law. It appeared, that when sub- stances resemble each other in chemical characters, their crystalline forms are also similar. When the similarity in chemical properties is very great, the shapes become absolutely identical. It is a very singular circumstance, which no one appears to have in the least anticipated, that where two close- ly-allied bodies, such as arsenic and phosphorus. unite with the same third substance, they should produce identical forms when the respective com- pounds are crystallized. Each face of the one slopes at the same angle as the same face of the other. A mould of a crystal of the one would fit a crystal of the same size of the other A goni 14 LIFE OF WOLLASTON. ometerset at the angle of the one, would exactly measure the angle of the other. Such crystals are named isomorphous, a Greek word synonymous with the Latin one, similiform, also made use of. Taught by this law, the chemist, to his astonish- ment, found himself able to ascertain chemical analogies by measuring angles of crystals, and sup- plied with a means of controlling and explaining the results of analyses, which Otherwise seemed only to lead to contradiction and confusion. Crystalline form is now one of the first things attended to in classifying chemical substances, and is the basis of most of our attempts to arrange them into groups and natural families. We cannot delay on this curious subject. Suf- lice it to say that the announcement by Mitscher- lich of the law of isomorphism at once overthrew the prevailing systems of mineralogy, and demand- ed their complete reconstruction. It changed, also, the aspect of chemistry, and where its influence on that science will end we cannot yet tell. It deserves especial notice, but has never obtain- ed it, in histories of the progress of chemistry, that he who, by his gift of the platina crucible, enabled his brethren .to extend the whole science, and espe- cially to subject every mineral to analysis, by his other gift of the reflective goniometer showed them how to marshal their discoveries. The latter in- strument has been to the chemist like a compass- needle or theodolite to the settlers in a strange country. By means of it, he has surveyed and mapped out the territory he has won, so that new comers may readily understand the features of the district; and has laid down pathways and roads, along which his successors may securely travel. A mere list of papers is a doll thing, of no inter- est to those acquainted with the papers themselves, and of little valne to those who are not. The reader, however, must bear with us a little, whilst we bring briefly before him three other essays by Wollas- ton ; they are all curious, and, besides their intrin- sic value, are important as illostrating the versatil- ity of his mind, and the singular accuracy of all his observations. One of them is on the interesting and poetical subject of Fairy rings. Most persons in this country must be familiar with the circles of dark green grass which are frequently seen in natural pastures, or on ground which has long lain un- ploughed. They are particularly abundant on commons and in sheep-walks, such as the chalk- downs in the south of England. Their dimensions are so great, and they are so symmetrical, and so much darker in color than the surrounding herb- age, that they never fail to attract the attention of even the most careless passer by. These circles, a beautiful rural superstition supposes to have been marked out by the feet of fairies, whirling round in their midnight dances: they have, in consequence, been named fairy rings. It is well known, also, that they gradually increase in dimensions: in cer- tain cases, even by as much as two feet in a single year. A believer in elves might suppose that the fairies, from time to time, admitted their children to their pastimes, when they were done with the dancing-school and fit for presentation, or in other ways added new guests to their parties, and re- quired more spacious waltzing-ground. These beautifuL and mysterious circles the chern- ist would not leave to the poet. Keats has com- plained that There was a glorious rainbow once in heaven; T is numbered now amongst the catalogue Of common things.~ Science, which would not spare the rainbow, has had no mercy on the fairy rings; though, in truth, both the one and the other still are, and ever will be, as truly the possession of the poet as they were of old. There is no one, we suppose, who does not sympathixe with the poetical rendering of the fairy ring ; and no one, probably, who does not at the same time wish to know what the scientific version is also. Wallaston furnished us with the latter. He was led to form the opinion we are about to state, by noticing that some species of fungi were always to be found at the margin of the dark ring of grass, if examined at the proper season. This led him to make more careful observations, and he came to the conclusion that the formation of the ring was entirely owing to the action of the fungi in the following way. In the centre of each circle, a clump or group of toadstools or mushrooms had once flourished, till the soil, completely exhausted by their continued growth on it, refused to support them any longer. The following year, according- ly, the toadstools which sprang from the spawn of the preceding generation, spread outwards from the original spotof growth towards the unexhausted outer soil. In this way, a barren central place came to be surrounded by a ring of fungi, year by year increasing in diameter, as it exhausted the earth it grew upon, and travelled outwards in search of virgin soil. But this was not all. The toadstools, as they died, ma- nured or fertilized the ground, so that, although fora certain period the place where they had grown was barren, by-and-bye the grass flourished there more luxuriantly than elsewhere, and manifested this by its greater length and deeper color. In this way, each circle of mushrooms came to be preceded by a ring of withered grass, and succeeded by one of the deepest verdure, and as the one increased the others did also. On Salisbury plain, near Stonehenge, where, as in a hallowed and befittitig locality, fairy rings abound, we have tested the truth of Wollaston ~s view. The sides of the low mounds which cover that plain are variegated by the circles in question. A few are imperfect; quadrants and semicircles; the greater number wonderfully symmetrical, and to appearance completely circular. The latter ex- hibit with great unifiurmity the phenomena which Wollaston describes. A plot of grass, resembling in tint and appearance the ordinary herbage of the down, stands in the centre of a dark green ring five or six feet in diameter. This is fringed by a forest of fungi, and they in their turn are bounded by a circle of stunted, withered grass. This last phe- nomenon was quite in keeping with Wollastons theory of the origin of fairy rings. He observes that during the growth of fungi they so entirely absorb all nutriment from the soil beneath, that the herbage is often for a while destroyed, and a rino appears bare of grass surrounding the dark ring; but after the fungi have ceased to appear, the soil where they had grown becomes darker, and the grass soon vegetates again with peculiar vigor. These views of Wollaston have been beautifully confirmed by the recent researches of Professor Schlossberger of Tiibingen, into the chemical com- positions of the fungi, by which it appears that they contain a larger quantity of nitrogen, of phos- phates, and of other salts, than any of our cultivat- ed vegetables. In consequence of this, they must exhaust the soil more when they grow on it, aiid. 16 on the other hand fertilize it more, when restored to it; than any other plants. Dr. Schlossberger has accordingly recommended the employment of the fungi as manures.* We conclude this subject by remarking that our great poet, who had an eye for everything, connects fairy rings and mushrooms together, almost as if he had anticipated Wollaston. Our readers will remember the passage in the Tempest: You demy-puppets, that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pas- time Is to make midnight mushrooms. In another, and one of the most curious of his papers, Wollaston again plays the part of disen- chanter of a poetical fancy. It is entitled, On the apparent direction of the Eyes of a Portrait. Into this essay we cannot enter at length, but it deserves a word of notice. One large part of it is occupied in showing that we are unconsciously guided in our estimate of the di- rection in which the eyes of another are turned, not merely by the position of the iris (or colored circle) and whites of these eyes, but likewise by the direc- tion of the concurrent features, particularly those which are more prominent, as the nose and fore- head. Iloxvever unexpected this statement may be, or perplexing the explanation of it, Wollaston puts it out of the power of the least credulous of his readers to deny the fact, by the plates which accom- pany his paper. In these he shows that the same pair of eyes may be made to look up, or down, or 10 either side, merely by altering the direction of the nose and forehead which accompany them. In this paper, also, he supplies an explanation of the familiar fact, that if the eyes of a portrait look at the spectator placed in front of the picture, they am pear to follow him in every other direction. We need not remind the reader how many allu- sions are made to this optical phenomenon in the works of our poets and novelists, with whom it has ever been a favorite engine for cheering, terrifying, or instructing their heroes. Here, for example, is one of Sir Walter Scotts many references to it. ~Then Colonel Everard visited Woodstock lodge, where an ancient family portrait hung upon the walls, He remembered how, when left alone in the apartment, the searching eye of the old warrior seemed always bent upon his, in whatever part of the room he placed himself, and how his childish imagination was perturbed at a phenomenon for which lie could not account. It did not escape Shakspeare. To take a single case. When Bassanio opens the leaden casket, and beholds Portias portrait, he exclaims Move these eyes 1 Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion l A beautiful poem of Mrs. Southeys, On the removal of some Family Portraits, turns almost entirely on the subject we are discussing. The ex- planation is very simple. The only portraits which exhibit the ubiquity of look referred to, are those which have the face and eyes represented as direct- a straight forwards. A certain deviation from ab- ~Aute straightforwardness of look may occur, with- * We have seen fields lying fallow in the south of 11k gland, because, as was alleged, they would not hear ~.r ips, although they were thickly covered with edible i~ ishrooms. Where the latter grow freely, wheat, and tLe other grains, are certain to flourish also. LIFE OF WOLLASTON. out the phenomenon disappearing, although in that case it will be less apparent; but if the face and eyes are much turned to one side, it is not observed. In a front face, the same breadth of forehead, cheek, chin, & c., is depicted on either side of the nose, considered as a middle line. The eye, also, is drawn with its iris or colored ring in the centre, and the white of the eye shown to the same extent on each side of the iris. In a countenance so re- presented, if the eye appear fixed on the spectator ~vhen he stands in front of the portrait, it will con- tinue to gaze on him, from whatever point he re- gards the picture. If, for example, he place him- self far to the one side of the painting, the breadth of the face will appear much diminished. But this horizontal diminution will tell on the whole face equally, and will not alter the relative position of its parts. The nose will still appear with as much breadth of face on the one side as on the other, and therefore stand in the centre. The iris will still exhibit the same breadth of white to the right and to the left, and continue therefore to show itself in the middle of the eye. The countenance, in fact, will still be directed straight forward, and its ex- pression remain unchanged. One other reference will conclude our discussion of Wollastons Essays. The last paper we men- tion is, On Sounds inaudible to certain ears. Its object is to point out, that while in the natural healthy state of the ear, there seems to be no limit to the power of discerning low sounds, in many per- sons who are otherwise quite free from deafness, there exists a total insensibility to high or shrill notes, so that they are quite deaf to these. The hearing of different persons was found by Wollas- ton to terminate at a note four or five octaves above the middle E of the pianoforte. His own hearing ceased at six octaves above that note. Those who were thus deaf to high notes were, in consequence, quite insensible to the chirping of the grasshopper, the cricket, the sparrow, and the bat. With these observations Wollaston connects a beautiful specu- lation as to the possibility of insects both emitting and listening to shrill sounds, which we never hear; whilst they, in like manner, are totally deaf to the graver notes which only affect our ears. We quote his own words The range of human hearing includes more than nine octaves, the whole of which are distinct to most ears, though the vibrations of a note at tile higher extreme are six hundred or seven hundred times more frequent than those which constitute the gravest atidible sound. As vibrations incomparably more frequent may exist, we may imagine that animals like the grylli, (grasshoppers, crickets, molecrickets, & c.,) whose powers appear to commence nearly where ours ter- minate, may hear still sharper sounds which we do not know to exist; and that there may be insects hearing nolhing in common with us, but endued with the power of exciting, and a sense that hears the same vibrations which constitute our ordinary sounds, but so remote, that the animal which per- ceives them may be said to possess another sense, agreeing with our own, solely in the medium by which it is excited, and possibly wholly unaffected by those slower vibrations of which we are sen- sible. This seems to us a striking and beautiful idea, and suggests many thoughts. It is in a fine sense a fulfilment of St. Pauls declaration, There are, it may be, so many kinds of voices in the world, and none of them is without signification. Such is a most perfect list of the additions made LIFE OF WOLLASTON. 17 by a single philosopher to the scientific literature over pictures of warriors dying at the moment of of our country; and he a private gentleman, work- victory, covered, as we are pleased to say, with ing without help from government or any other ex- glory. It is well that we should admire these, for triusic aid. Several of the essays we have referrcd so noble a quality as courage must he honored in to, were read before the Royal Society of London all its rightful manifestations. Nevertheless, there in the last year of the authors life, under circum- are not a few who would prove heroic enough be- stances which invest them with peculiar interest, fore a visible foe, hut would quail before the solita- Towards the latter part of the year 1828, Wollas- ry approach of the last enemy. They could ton became dangerously ill of the disease of the endure even to the death, when surrounded by brain, of which he died. His complaint was a hundreds involved in the same peril, and stirred by painful one, and it speedily showed such symptoms the same impulse as themselves; but would lack as satisfied the sufferer himself that death ~vas at something of their courage if the influence of num- hand. lie acted on the information as if the warn- hers and the sympathy of fellow-sufferers were ing of coming dissolution had been accompanied by gone, and the excitement of active and maui- the same advice which was given to king Hezekiab fest struggle were wanting. There are not many in similar circumstances, Set thine house in or- who, laid on a sick bed as Wollaston was, and cer- der, for thou shalt die and not live. Finding him- tam that recovery was hopeless, would have so self unable to write out. an account of such of his risen above the terror of death, and the distraction discoveries and inventions as he was reluctant of pain, as to work as if health were in possession, should perish with him, he spent his numbered and long life in prospect. The great majority hours in dictating to an amanuensis an account of would think they did well if they submitted to their some of the inure important of them. These part- fate with some show of decent gravity, and made lug gifts of a dying philosopher to his brethren will no unmanly complaint; whilst every solace that be found in the papers bearing his name which are could be furnished was applied to smooth the way printed in the Philosophical Transactions for 1829. to the tomb. We cannot, therefore, but highly We have placed their titles at the head of our arti- honor the resolute man of science, who did not per- cle. In one of them he makes a touching allusion mit sickness, or suffering, or coming death, to pre- to the unaccustomed haste which he had been vent him from putting on record the otherwise lost ohliged to exhibit in drawing it up. No indications knowledge, which he thought might serve the of haste, however, appear in the essay in question, cause of truth and benefit his fellow-men. or in any of the others referred to. One of them It would have been in the highest degree inter- is the account of the process for working platina, eating to have known what were the grounds of and, like Wollastons other l)apers, is a model of this notable courage, and with what feelin~ts Wol- what a physical essay should he. laston not only prepared to leave this world, but These were not his only legacies to science. looked forward to a world to come. We long to Shortly before his death, lie wrote a letter to the learn whether it be but constitutional calmness and secretary of the Royal Society, informing him that stoicism such as a Greek or Roman might have he had that day invested, in the name of the socic- shown, or fortitude such as only a Christian can ty, stock to the amount of 1000. The interest display, that we are called on to admire in the dy- of this money he wished to be employed in the en- ing philosopher. But none of those who alone couragement of experiments in natural philosophy, were entitled to speak on this point have given us A Wollaston medal is accordingly given periodi- information concerning it; and we forbear to form cally by the Royal Society. any conjectures. Whencesoever derived, Wollas- In the June before his death, he was proposed as tons steadfast resolution continued to the end. a member of the Astronomical Society of London; When he was nearly in the last agonies, one of his but, according to the rules of th~it body, he could friends having observed, loud enough for him to not have been elected before their last meeting for hear, that he was not at the tinie conscious of what the year. When the society met in November, was passing around him, he immediately niade a 1828, however, the alarming situation of his health, sign for a pencil and paper, which were given him. and the great probability (if his dissolution previous He then wrote down some figures, and, after cast- to the December meeting, induced the council at ing up the sum, returned them. The amount was once to recommend to the assembled members a de- right. He died on ~he twenty-second of Decem- parture from the established rule, and that the dcc- her, 1828, aged sixty-two, a few months before his tion should take place at that sitting. This was great scientific contemporaries, Sir Humphrey done, and received the unanimous sanction of the Davy and Dr. Thomas Young. After death, it meeting, which insisted on dispensing with even appeared that that portion of the brain from which the formality of a ballot. Dr. Wollaston, then the optic nerve arises was occupied by a large to- within a few days of his death, acknowledged this mor. If we are right in thinking that the singular feeling and courteous act by presenting the society one-sided blindness from which he sometimes suf- with a valuable telescope, which he greatly prized. fered was an early symptom of this malady, it must It (iriginally belonged to his father, and had been have proceeded very slowly, for his paper on the subsequently improved by the application to it of an semi-decussation of the optic nerves was published invention of his own, that of the triple achromatic ii1 1824. It is interesting for the sake of psycholo- object glass, a device on which astronomers set gy to know, that in spite of the extensive cerebral great value, disease referred to, Wollastons faculties were un It is impossi.~te to turn from the record of these clouded to the last. incidents, without a feeling of strong admiration of There remains but little to be told. No pie- the old Roman-like resolution and calm courage turesque incidents or romantic stories adorn Wol- with which the suffering philosopher waited for lastons biography, and but few characteristic anec- death. We are all too apt to admire only the ac- dotes have been preserved. His days were spent tive agonistie courage of the battle field, or other with entire devotion to science, between his labora- arena of energetic and laborious warfare or strug- tory and his library. For it was little better than gle; and are prone to let our imaginations kindle an extension of this, that he was a diligent attend- 18 LIFE OF WOLLASTON. ant on the meetings of the Royal, the Geological, and other societies, and took a keen interest in their proceedings. Occasional excnrsions to the country appear to have been his only recreation. These aflbrded him an opportunity of prosecuting geology, which ~vas a favorite study, and, during the last twelve years of his life, enabled him to gratify the love for angling with which Sir II. Davy had infected him. His reluctance, or rather positive refusal, to ad- trrit even friends to his laboratory has already been referred to. Plato is said to have written above the door of his study, Let no one who is not a mathematician enter. Had Wollaston placed an inscription, or rather a proscription, above the door of his laboratory, it would have been still more brief and comprehensive. Let NO one enter. It is related that a gentleman of his acquaintance, having been left by the servant to ramble from one room to another till he should be ready to see him, penetrated into the laboratory. The doctor, on coming in, discovered the intrusion; but not suffer- ing himself to express all he felt on the occasion, took his friend by the arm, and having led him to the most sacred spot in the room, said~ Mr. P., do you see that furnace1 I do. Then make a profound bow to it, for as this is the first time, it will also he the last time, of your seeing it.,, This hermetically sealed laboratory is known to have been of small dimensions. It did not require to he large, for Wollastons researches were sys- temnatically prosecuted on a scale of nearly micro- scopic minuteness. He was celebrated for the al- roost atomic quantities of matter on which he wrought to as much good purpose as other men on hundreds of grains. His demonstration of the identity of columbiurn arid tantalum was founded upon the examination of a very few grains of two rare minerals. His detection of titanium in the iron slags was effected on equally small quanti- ties. Dr. Paris mentions, in his life of Davy, that a forei~n philosopher once called upon Dr. Wollas-. ton with letters of introduction, and expressed an anxious desire to see his laboratory. Certainly, he replied; and immediately produced a small tray coutainin~ some glass tubes, a blow-pipe, two or three watch-glasses, a slip of plamina, and a few test-tubes. It is added by the same gentleman, that Wollaston appeared to take great delight in showing by what small meau~he could produce great results. Shortly after he had inspected the grand galvanic battery constructed by Mr. Children, and had witnessed some of those brilliant phenomena of combustion which its powers produced, he acci- dentally met a brother chemist in the street. Seiz- ing his button, (his constant habit when speaking on any subject of interest,) he led him into a se- cluded corner, when, taking from his waistcoat pocket a tailors thimble, which contained a galvanic arrangement, and pouring into it the contents of a small vial, he instantly heated a platina wire to a whir.e heat. Wollaston was fond of amassing money: there have not, indeed, been wanting accusations to the effect, that if lie had sought less after wealth, he would have done more for science. How far these charges are true, we have no means of judg- ing, as it does not appear from the published ac- counts, in what exact way he made his money. That it was chiefly by the platina process is cer- tain, but whether he engaged in the manufacture himself, or only superintended it, we do not know. On this point we would only remark, that there is something, to say the least of it, very partial and unfair in the way in which obloquy is cast tipon men of science, if they appropriate to themselves some of the wealth which their discoveries procure for others. If a successful naval or military hero is lavishly pensioned out of the public purse, no one complains. It is not thought strange that a great painter or sculptor, whilst he justly declares his productions are worth untold gold, should nev- ertheless demand a niodicum of coin from his ad- mirers. Neither is the poet or musician blnmed who sells his works to the highest bidder. But if a chemist, for whom there are few pensions and no peerages, think to help out a scanty or insufficient income by manufacturing gunpowder like Davy, or magnesia like Henry, or malleable platina like Wollaston, or guano like Liebig, the detractors as- sail him at once. He has lowered the dioniny of his science, and, it would seem, should starve, rather than degrade his vocation. That vocation, so far, at least, as the practical fruits of his own labors are concerned, is to be a kind of jackal, to start game which others are to follow, a beagle, to hunt down prey which others may devour. Surely there is but scanty justice here, and some forgetfulness of a sacred text, Thou shalt riot muzzle the mouth of the ox that treadeth out the corn. We are no advocates of a sordid spirit in men of science, neither do we lament that government is less liberal to them in this than in other countries. When we look at the roll of our illustrious men, we see little reason to regret that they have not the grants which France, Germany, and Russia so freely bestow Neither system is perfect, and our own, with all its faults, works well. Btit private enterprise must manifestly supplement the deficien- cies of government aid. It is therefore unfair to blame an unpensioned, unpiaced chemist like Wollaston, if be secure an income by his indepen- dent labor. To manufacture platina may be, in the eyes of the world, a less dignified occtupanion than practising medicine, but it left the man mif science mtich more leisure for his studies than physic would In we done, and paid him a great deal better. We will not, however, take it. on us to affirm that Wollaston might not have been content with less than 30,0001. Perhaps, and probably lie might have been, though we know too little (if his circumstances to be able to judge exactly on that p(tint. That he did not selfishly hoard his money may be gathered fr(im the fidlowinig anecdote, which is declared to be authentic. Having been applied to by a gentleman, who was involved by unexpected difficulties, to procure him some govern- merit situation, Dr Wollastons reply was I have lived to sixty wirhorut asking a single favor from men in office, arid it is not after that age that I shall be induced to do so, even were it to serve a brother. If the enclosed can be of rise to yuuti in yotir present difficulties, pray accept it, for it is much at your service. The enclosed was a cheqtie for ten thousand pounds. In attempting further to illustrate Wollastons character, we must have recourse to the device so comrnuonu with biographers, of comparing him with some of those who were engaged in the same pur- suits as himself. A natural and admirable occa- sion for doing so, such as Pluitareb would have de- lighted in, is afforded by the fact that Wollastont L[FE OF WOLLASTON. 19 and Davy were contemporaries and friends. It is difficult to imagine a greater contrast than that between the eager, imaginative poet-chemist, on the one hand, and the austere, unimpassioned, monk-philosopher on the other. Davy was a man of sanguine, enthusiastic temperament, overflowing with life and animation ; Wollastons nature was as still and unmoved as the hosom of a lake hidden from the wind in the recesses of a cavern. The former ~vas a spoiled child of nature and of fortune, and greedy of applause. He delighted in the approving smiles of ladies, and was flattered by the notice of the great. It was a source of pain to him that he was not of good family. Wollaston was a disappointed man. He begged one boon from his brethren, the physicianship of an hospital; when that was refused him, he shut himself up in his laboratory, and rejoiced, when sixty years old, that he would not ask a favor, even for a brother. He was indifferent to the notice of all hut scientific persons, and avoided every occasion of aitracting popular attention. Their characters as philosophers were as differ- ent as their tastes and habits as men. Davy had fhr greater originating power, boldness of specula- tion, and faculty of generalization; and he showed great skill in realizing his ideas. Wollaston ex- celled Davy in extent of scientific accomplishment, in minute accuracy of observation, and in closeness of reasoning. He wrought out his conceptions with singular ingenuity, and brought the utmost mechanical experience and dexterity to the solution of difficult questions. Both were good artists and manipulators, but Wollastori was much the better of the two. Davy was very ingenious in devising, but reckless and inexperienced in constructing. XVallaston excelled him in ingenuity, and, more- over, was a first-rate workman. The mode in which they reached their dis- coveries was as dissimilar as the subjects which they selected. I)avy considered the faintest analo- gy worth pursuing. Possibilities were with him probabilities probabilities truths. Wollaston s idea of a truth was not so much something proved true, but something which could not be proved not to he true. his most positive yes was often a not no, rather than a hearty yea and amen. When Davy took up an inquiry, it was ~vith the highest hopes and visions of success. If he gained his end, he was greatly elated, if he failed, he was correspondingly depressed Wollaston set about a scientific undertaking more as if it were a matter of duty, than an occupation which by its result could possibly give him pain or pleasure. His pulse probably never quickened or slackened a heat in consequence of success or failure. When Davy discovered potassium, his delight and agi- tation were so great, that he enrolled the fact in his note-hook in an almost illegible scrawl. Wol- laston would have written the announcement in his rotin(lest hand. With Davy, the end of the inquiry was the great object; the shortest way by which it could be reached was the best. The meaiis hy which it was arrived at, were in themselves indif- ferent. He hastened impetuously to reach the goal. For Wollaston, the journey had interest, whatever might he its conclusion. He hated to make a false or doubtful move, though it might advance him towards his ultimate object. Each stage of the undertaking was, for the time, the entire subject of concern. He travelled leisurely along, breaking new ground with the utmost cau tion, fastidious about every step of the journey. A sufficient pathway would not content him, though no one might follow his steps. He must stop, and make it a perfect road. The one philosopher was like the stag-hound running down the game his keen eye got sight of, by speed of foot and nimble- ness of limb, or missing it altogether. The other resembled the blood-hound following leisurely on the trail of his prey; slow, comparatively, in his movements, and with eyes fixed upon the ground, but certain never to quit the chase, or to make one false step till he was up with his victim. Davys t~enius was like the burning thunderbolt whose forces he did so much to explain. Attracted only by towering arid lofty things, it smote down from the zenith, prostrating maiden citadels, and scat- tering in dust, or dissipating in fiery drops, what- soever opposed it. Wollastons genius was like the light, whose laws he so much loved to study. It was not, however, the blazing light of day that it resembled, hut the still moonlight, as ready with clear but cold radiance to shine in, on a solitary obscure chamber, as able to illuminate with its unburning beams, every dark and stately hall of the closed fortresses where Nature keeps her secrets. In their habits of laboratory working and maui- pulation, Davy and Wollaston have been compared to the pair~ters, Michael Angelo and Teniers ; the former, reckless, impetuous, and turbulent in his mode of producing results ; the latter, minute, microscopic, precise, and accurate, even in the smallest details. The comparison is just 50 far, but it either elevates Davy too high, or degrades Wollaston too low. Davy devising his safety lamp, after a few rapidly performed experiments, may be the Michael Angelo, contrasted with Wol- laston, the Teniers, slowly perfecting a process for drawing out a capillary gold wire. But Wollas- ton, solving by means oif a little telescope of his (iwn adaptation, the problem of the existence of an atmosphere rotind the sun, contrasted with Davy discovering potassium by means of a gigantic vol- taic battery, and every other aid and appliance to boot, must be called (as an artist friend suggests) at least a Correggio, whilst the latter is styled rather a P itian than a Michael Angelo. Davy and Wollaston were men of most marked individuality of character, and giants both. The youthful stu- dent will do well who accepts the guidance of either. He will do better, if like Faraday, he unite the excellences of both. To these attempts to bring out Wollastons character by contrasts with that of his great con- temporary, we would add a word or two concern- ing his likeness in disposition to another of our dis- tinguished men of science. Those who are ac- quainted with the life of the Honorable Henry Cavendish will acknowledge that he and Wollas- ton resembled each other greatly. In both there was the same austerity, taciturnity and reserve; the same extreme caution in drawing conclusions, and exact precision in stating them ; the same catholicity of tastes as regarded their philosophical pursuits; the same relish for scientific society and dislike to any other; the same iudifference to applause; the same frugal habits; the same can- dor and justice towards other men of science; and the same strong love of truth amid perfect integrity. And as in life they were alike, so in death thmey were not divided. The closing moments of the one, were marked by the same kind of calm 20 LIFE OF WOLLASTON. courage and serenity ~vhich distinguished the death- bed of the other. Cavendish and Wollaston might in truth have been twin brothers. In contrasting Wollaston with Davy, and in corn- paring him with Cavendish, we have not willingly overstated matters. But all such attempts partake more or less of rhetorical artifice, and convey at best but a partial and imperfect idea of the character of any individual. No man is exactly the opposite or exactly the image of another. If his name be worth preserving at all, his individuality must be marked, and should be susceptible of definition and demonstration. It seems to us that three predomi- nant qualities determined the scope of Wollastons genius. The statement of these will perhaps in some degree explain the comparatively slight im- pression which lie has made on science, and the partial oblivion into which his name has already fallen. We remark first, that, in common with all great observers in physics, he possessed a keen intellect, a well-balanced judgment, a most retentive memory, rapidity and readiness in discerning analogies, great power of analysis and also of generalization, perse- verance in working out ideas once started, and practical skill in effecting their realization. To hold in check these estimable qualities, there existed in the first place a quite inordinate caution, which never permitted them to range freely over the domains of science. Wollastons caution was of a peculiar kind. It was not the wariness of timidity or self-distrust. He was in all respects a coura- geous man, and had much more self-reliance than Davy. The boldness of a speculation would not have deterred him from er~tertaining it. It would, in truth, have been neither a recommendation nor an objection to any suggestion. Fearlessn~ss or timidity, as evinced in a hypothesis or theory, were qualities intangible to science, which was only con- cerned with the question, ~vas the speculation true, or was it not! It was untruth that Wollaston so greatly dreaded; and the fear of it made him prone to underestimate the positive worth of any fact. An inquiry thus be- came for him a very tedious and protracted affair. It was riot sufficient that a fact, perhaps quite inci- dental to the main object, and what other mcii would have called trivial, was true enough for the use he had to make of it. It must be true enough for every purpose it could be applied to: in a word, positively and absolutely true. Wollaston was thus like a man crossing a river by casting in stepping- stones, but who would not be content, that, with here and there a pretty long leap, and now and then a plash and a wetting, he should get across. He must stop and square and set each stone, before he stepped on to the next, and so measure his way to the other side. Yet the stones were no more to him than to other travellers. To cross the river was his object as well as theirs. The stepping- stones were only the means to that. But they were doubtful and uncertain means, if carelessly arranged. Many would reach the opposite side in safety, but a single pilgrim might be washed away arid drowned. Wollaston made a pathway safe even for the blind. Davy, when he discovered potassium, argued somewhat thus: It is probable for several, or (as he would say) for many reasons, that potash and soda are the oxides of metals. It is also probable that electricity, which can decompose so many thine~s will be able to decompose them. He tried if it would, and discovered some dozen new metals. Wollaston would have said, it is possible that the alkalies contain metals, and possible also that elec- tricity could separate them. But at that point he would have stopped to array the probabilities against both ideas proving true; and these would have appeared so strong that he would never have gone further. All discoverers, with the exception of the very highest, such as Newton, take a great deal for granted. They advance not by steps, but by strides, and often gain their ends in strange ways. The new country in which they land themselves and their brethren, is reached by some bold attempt which is soon stigmatized as illegitimate and un- worthy. The new country, however, is there for all that, and more legitimate and worthy methods of approach are soon discovered. We have Liebig for example, in our own day, accused of assuming doctrines that he cannot prove; and of giving us hypotheses as thoroughly established generaliza- tions. Now and then he is provoked to return some indignant rejoinder to the bitter denunciations of his angry critics. But they make no abiding impression on the eager German, who replies with fresh assumptions and new hypotheses, more ag- gravating than before. His successors will doubt- less weed out of his system as useless many things which he couiits as essential to it, and establish as only partially just much that he believes to be abso-. lutely true. But if Liebig had stopped like Wol- laston to render each step in his progress incontro- vertible, organic chemistry would be infinitely less advanced than it is at the present day. Had Wollaston been a man of as grand and as fine intellect as Newton, his caution would not have prevented him being a great discoverer; but with faculties much more limited than his, he had caution equally great. Accordingly, although lie had the start of Davy in electricity, and knew that science thoroughly, he allowed the latter to carry off the greater number of the trophies in galvanic discovery. He detected for himself the law of combination in multiple proportion, and might have extended it into such a scheme as Dalton embodied in his atomic hypethesis. Wollaston was infinitely better qualified than Dalton to investigate by experiment, laws of combiiiation. But he stepped with the dis- covery of the one law, and did not even publish that, till Dalton had made it known along with sev- eral others. But characteristic as caution was of Wollaston, it may be questioned whether it was more strongly marked iii him than ~in many other philosophers. Black, and still more Cavendish, were as cautious as he was. We must look farther, before we can sufficiently account for the apparently small amount of fruit which his life of scientific labor yielded. We would indicate as the second feature in Wol- lastons mind which prevented his effecting greater achievements, the versatility of his tastes. There was scarcely a science which he had not studied and was not competent to extend. His Cambridge education gave him a taste for mathematics and the mathematico-physical sciences. From his father he inherited a fondness for astronomy, and by him he was probably initiated into its mysteries from his earliest years. No maii can be long an astronomer without feeling it necessary to study geology: Wollaston accordingly became a geologist. Nei- ther will any one make use of telescopes without becoming anxious to understand and to improve their construction: all astronomers, accordingly, LIFE OF WOLLASTON. are students of optics. Wollaston was a most dili- gent one. None of these sciences, however, will support their votaries: our philosopher accord- ingly studied medicine. Ihis introduced him to anatomy, physiology, pathology, botany, and chem- istry, on each of which he published papers. Davy had a most imperfect acquaintance with all the sciences, except chemistry and electricity. Wollaston knew them all, and worked at them by turns. A list of some of his papers which we have not commented upon will show how impartially he distributed his attention. The Bakerian lecture for 1803: Observations of the quantity of hori- zontal refraction; with a method of measuring the dip at sea The Bakerian lecture for 1806: On the force of percussion. The Croonian lecture for 1810: On muscular motion, sea-sickness, and carriage exercise. The Bakerian lecture for 1813: On the elementary particles of certain crystals. On a method of freezing at a dis- tamice. On a method of drawing extremely fine wires. On a periscopic camera obscura and microscope. On a method of cutting rock crys- tal for micrometers. On gouty concretions. On the concentric adjustment of a triple-object glass, & c. & c. & c. The reader will add to these, those named or discussed in our article al- ready. Davy was obliged to confine himself to the two sciences he knew, and in consequence, greatly ex- tended them. Wollaston had the open sesame to them all, and the result was, that he did a little for every one. He who divides his fortune into a number of small bequests, and leaves one to each of those who have a claim on him, is thanked for the time, but speedily for,.,otten. I3ut when a man gives his all to a single great object, it embalms his memory. Wollaston has passed from mens notice. Davy is immortal. There remains, however, a third characteristic to be noticed before we can understand all that biassed Wollaston, and turned his thoughts away from great scientific actions. We allude to his wonderful inventiveness and mechanical ingenu- ity. We call it wonderful, because, with the exception of James Watt, ilooke, and a very few others, Wollaston surpassed all his scientific coun- t~ymen in this respect, and there are not many for- eign natural philosophers who could be placed above him. Without entering into any detailed proof of this, we only remind the reader that lie ~vas the inventor of the reflecting goniometer, the camera Incida, th~ dip sector, the cryophorus; of a micrometer, of various improvements on the micro- scope, on the common eye-glass, on the camera obsenra, and of one most important one on the tele- scope; of the method of rendering platina mallca- ble, of a method of drawing extremely fine wires, of a method of comparimig the light of the sun with that of the fixed stars, and of many others which we cannot stop to mention. In addition to these special inventions, his papers are filled with descrip- tions of the most ingenious and original contriv- ances for securing the ends he had in view. When he became an angler, he astonished his friends by many curious devices for overcoming difficulties in the new art he had taken up. It must have come within the observation of most persons, that very ingenious mechanical con- trivers find the greatest pleasure in giving birth to inventions, and, where no other and higher taste divides their inclinations, and no pressing duty occupies their time, often devote themselves en- 21 tirely to the gratification of their talent. It is most natural that they should do so. There are few in~~ tellectual pleasures greater than that of being cre- ators, even to the extent that man may be one. The feeling of exultation with which the poet, the painter, or the musician, rejoices over the offspring of his genius, is shared, though in a lower degree, by the inventor whose new instrument or method is as much a creation, the embodiment and monu- ment of aim idea or ideas, as the poem, or the pic- ture, or the oratorio. In many men, ingenuity goes no further than devising. They are not craftsmen, to execute their plans; amid to give them to work- men would imivolve too costly a gratification of their wishes. But Wollaston was an excellent work- man; his hand was as ready to construct as his brain to invent; and they went together. There was thus a twofold temptation to gratify his inven- tive powers; and he did gratify themn to the utniost: h)ut time so spent was often little better than throwmm away. We rejoice that he invented a reflecting goniometer, and supplied an achromatic object glass for the telescope, amid we do not grudge the camera lucida; but as for the riot very important improve- ment of spectacles, microscopes, and camer~ ob- scura~, they might have safely been left to be made hy a duller man, when it appeared they were wanted. It was putting Pegasus in the yoke, or setting Samson to grind at the mill, to waste Wol- lastons energies on such work. His case should be a warning to young scientific men who have a great mechanical turn, to take care that it does not warp them aside from higher objects, amid convert them into mere iimstrument-mnakers. When we think how many inventions are only works of supererogation, no better than Rob Roys self-act- ing pistol, which was to l)rotect the entrance into a leather purse; or useless toys, like the recent Eureka maclime, for making nomisense Latin hex- ameters, or of the most circumscribed application, like patent needle-threaders: we cannot but wish that each inventor would pause, and ask whether there is, or will be any need or demand for what he is about to devise, before he proceeds to execute his project. Many of Wollaston~s inventiomis are now forgotten or sumperseded. TIme restraimit and distraction of faculty which these three influences occasioned, were fatal to Wollastons being a distinguished or systematic dis~overer. His inordinate intellectual caution kept him from giving to the world any great generaliza- tion. Had he attempted one, he would have spent a lifetime in establishing it to his own satisfaction. his acquaintance with most of the physical sciences induced him, instead of dedicating his life to the establishment of some one great theory in a single branch of knowledge, to pursue many inquiries in each; these were sufficiently limited in scope to be brought to a conclusion, satisfactory even to his fas- tidious, skeptical spirit, in a reasonable time. His mechanical ingenuity constantly tempted him to improve some one of the thousand instruments of physical science which are not perfect. He must nevertheless be counted great, on the ground of the multitude of single works which he executed so ably. He will stand in the second rank of great physical philosophers, along with Black and Cavendish, Davy and Dalton. The portraits of Wollaston represent him as a grave, silent, meditative mnan: one who would excils much sincere respect, but little enthusiastic n1fm*~ tion, among those who knew him. He led a se1~ tary life, and was never married. BUC1~INGHAM PALAC1~. His senses were peculiarly acute, a valuable pos- session to a physical philosopher. Some, indeed, have dwelt upon the acuteness of Wollastons senses as the source of his greatness as an inventor and discoverer. Others have indignantly affirmed that it was wronging a great philosopher to ascrihe his triumphs over nature, merely to his having had a sharp eye and nimhle fingers. The dispute seems a needless and a foolish one. That Wollaston had very acute hodily senses, has been certified to us by himself, and hy those who were his associates. But if any one think that the mere possession of these will make a man a Wollaston, let him only consider that there is not a Red Indian or an Esqui- maux who can distinguish a white hare from the white snow around it, who does not at least equal, if not far surpass, the philosopher in acuteness of hodily senses. On the other hand, it would he in the highest degree unwise to despise the gifts of sensitive bod- ily organs, and to leave out of consideration the influence of the physical element in determining the character of men. Soul and hody must he present in certain though varying proportions, to suit us for our special vocations; and the elements must he as kitidly, though differently mixed, to give the world assurance of a physical philosopher as of a poet or a statcsn an. Wollaston, like most of his distin- g uished fellow-men, owed a great deal to his hody, hut a great deal more to his soul. From what has bcei~ already stated, it will be manifest that our philosopher was not what most people would term an amiable person. He was, however, a just and most honorahle man; candid, open, and free from envy. Of this, many proofs might he given. We have already seen that he freely lent his influence to secure Sir H. Davy the chair of the Royal Society. His papers, also, afford incidentally many evidences of his candor. In the one on the finite extent of the atmosphere, he mentions, that after making his own ohservations on the transit of Venus over the suns disc, he dis- covered that results equally accurate had already been obtained hy M. Vidal of Montpellier, to whom, accordingly, he assigns the priority. In his essay on the forms of the elementary particles of certain crystals, he points out that he had heen anticipated by Dr. Hooke. He states, as a reason for publish- ing his paper on super and sub-acid salts, that he wished to furnish Dr. Dalton with a better means of proving the truth of his doctrine of combination in multiple proportions than the latters analysis of certain gases had supplied. He had occasion to point out that the chemist Chenevix had committed a great blunder in reference to the properties of the metal palladium: he did it in the most delicate and courteous way. Altogether, the combination of reserve with per- feet straight-forwardness; the relish for acquiring money, with the generosity in parting with it when it could be worthily bestowed; the clear intellect, the self-reliance, the aversion to interference or intrusion on the part of strangers; the impartial justice to rivals, and the husiness-like method of all his habits, seem to us preeminently to mark out Wollaston as, per cevellence, The English Philos- opher. BUCICINGHAM PALAcE. TEE London Times, in the following article, seems disposed to treat with levity the complaint of insufficient accommodations for Queen Victoria, and her increasing family at her metropolitaii residence. There appeared in our paper of Thursday a report on the misery and inconvenience to which the queen and her family have long been exposed by the want of adequate accommodation in Buckingham palace, and the subject also attracted not a little attention in the House of Commons last evening. This unlucky palace appears to he as comfortless within as unsightly without, and proves to be as little adapted for use as for ornament. The report to which we have referred reminds us of those dis- tressing documents of the health of towns com- missioners, in which the miserable condition of the poor, and the sufferings occ~sioned by the over- crowded state of their dwellings, are described. That the sovereign has been subjected in her own palace to all the horrors that affect the health of towns is really dreadful to think upon. It is impos- sible for a loyal man to read the statement of Mr. Blore, the architect appointed by the commissioners of woods and forests, without shudderin5 at the over-population, the bad ventilation, the want of air and space, which he describes with a most pictorial pen to have prevailed for some time past in Buck- inghain palace. He divides the royal discomfort.s under seven different heads, every one of which i~ sufficient to mar very materially the domestic enjoy ment of her majesty. In the first place, the private apartments of the queen and the prince in the north wiiig were not calculated originally for a married sovereign. What could the architect have been about when he designed to accommodate the occupant of the throne in lodgings for a single man, or a single woman What right had he to presume on th~ celibacy of the wearer of the crown, and provide apartments not fitted, according to Mr. Blores report, for the accommodation ofthe head of a family ~ What is enough for one is very often not enough for two; and we can sympathize with the royal pair, who have been managing for the last few years in a small suite of rooms only designed for an unmarried lady or gentleman. In addition, however, to the insufficiency of space, it appears that the queen and the prince have been undergoing the further inflic- tion of living over a workshop. The lord cham- berlain, it seems, lies his smith and upholstery establishment, where he is constantly boiling his glue and carrying on other offensive operalions immediately tinder the priva.te apartments of the sovereign. A three pair attic could scarcely be worse situated as to smell and noise than the rooms occupied in Buckingham palace by her majesty and her illustrious consort. Our loyal blood boils almost as violently as the glue at the contemplation of the fact that the queen and the prince have been residing all these years over a workshop in Pi hico. We have no patience with Mr. Blores calmness when he talks of the obvious impropriety of the. arrangement. He, however, warms up a little under the recollection of the great truth, which he lays down with considerable force and distinctness, that oil and glue are both of them inflammable substances. He hints at the risk of fire, and sug- gests to the minds of her subjects the alarming reflection that the sovereign and her husband have been occupying a building which the iIisurance companies would consider doubly or trebly hazard- Oils. The second grievance brings us to the distress- ingly contracted state of the royal nursery. Mr. Blore begins by calling public attention to the prob DANIEL BOONE. 23 aoility ,f the royal infants increasing in their passage may be intended to give to many a sop in growth -an extension to which they are undoubt- the pan, as a substitute for the cover they have edly lh4de. happily, there is, we believe, no ten- not been permitted to enjoy at the royal table. dency among her majestys children to Tom Thumb- The reception of illustrious guests is another is m, and Mr. Blores suggestion that they will grow most important matter referred to in the report, is extremely rational. Jt seems that a few rooms which tells us there is but one suite of apartments in the attics of the north wing are all the nursery that her majesty can offer to distinguishcd visitors. accoenmudation available to meet the growing wants Thus it happens that if two great potentates should of an increasing family. The rapid succession of arrive in England at the same time on a visit to the happy events must, of course, have materially queen, as their majesties of Russia and Saxony did, added to the inconvenience existing in this partien- there is only a spare bed for One of them. It is lar portion of the palace. Some of the servants true, as the report states, that at great inconvenience have accordingly been dislodged from their attics apartments could be diverted from their ordinary and packed in small compartments on the ground appropriations, or, in other words, the King of floor, where one room has been cut down into two Saxony might have been asked to sleep on a sofa by the assistance of a false ceiling. This shock- while the Emperor of Russia was in the house; but ncr hut ingenious contrivance reminds us of the svs- this is not the way in which the Queen of England tom of stowing away the blacks in sl~ ye vessels, should receive the monarchs of Europe. After an If any of the tall footmen happen to have undergone allusion to the over-crowding and ill ventilation of this compression into an apartment half its ordinary the palace generally, by a great number of persons height, they must have heen literally doubled up hy being crammed into small rooms, the report con- the dreadful process. They must have found it eludes by promising to suggest a remedy. necessary to learn the art of shutting themselves up In this, we fear, even the fluent Mr. l3lore, - and drawing themselves out again on a kind of tel- backed though he he by ministers and ex-ministers, escopic principle; for, though they would be forced will find himself at fault. If all the allegations he to shrink into littleness when they retired to their has so laboriously set forth are true, we see no own rooms, they would he expected to stand erect other course than to clear away the structure tha.t in tile presence of their sovereign, now stands, and to build a new one on the same site, The third grievance relates to the want of accom- if it is thought desirahle to keep the royal family modation for the lord chamberlain, who, notwith- still located in the middle of a swamp at Pimlit o. standing that lie is perpetually haminerin0 and boil- The Pavilion at Brighton is, it seems, to he sold, ing glue under her majestys private rooms, has not pulled down, and carted away as dry rubbish, and sufficient scope for his extensive operations. We it tvould, we think, be as well to dispose of Buck- were not aware that the lord chamberlains depart- ingham palace in the same manner. It is already meut included so much carpenters business in ordi. more than ugly enou~h, and will be uglier still nary and smiths work in general. The ignorant when a kitchen is added in one corner, a nursery in these matters might imagine that the work-shop stuck up somewhere else, and a hall or banquet so near the person of the sovereign may have some- room built out in some other direction. We ought thing to do with the making or repairing of the not to forget that the report alludes to very could- cahinet. It seems, however, that so extensive is erable accommodation being required for the tutors the business of the lord chamberlain in the uphol- who will soon have to be in attendance on the royal stery line that he keeps up branch concerns in St. family. The proposed wing for these gentlemen .Tames palace and in still more remote quarters. must, of course, therefore, be considered in the Where can these quarters be that are even more architectural desi~n, which cannot, we think, have remote than St. James palace? By the dis- a fair chance unless it is wholly unfettered by any inclination shown by Mr. Blore to furnish the reference to the present structure. address, we should be disposed to guess that the chamberlain has got a shop in some such place as Thou the Pittshur0h American. Whetstone park, or down a mews in some equally DANIEl BOONE. recondite neighborhood. The culinary department is the next to which the IN the last June No. of Littells Living A e is report refers, in language so strong as to declare, an article credited to Chambers Journal, professing that, the kitchen has defeated every attempt to to be a condensation of a sketch of the life of Ccl. prevent its being a nuisance to the palace. The Boone, from the January No. of the North A men- obstinacy of the cuisine, which has triumphed over can Review. In the article before us we find it every attempt to keep it down, must have been stated that Daniel Boone was born in the county indeed remarkable. We presume that odors of of Somerset, England. This is a very gredt :te~vs and hashes were the weapons by which the error, and we are surprised that journals of such defeat alluded to has been accomplished. The high reputation should commit so gross a one. In kitchen must have carried its sauce to a fearful the present instance it is absolutely too had. En - height thus to have flown into the very face of the lish writers are fond of claiming Washington ~is sovereign. While, however, it has been strong as their countryman, because he was born of the do- a nuisance it has been impotent as a minister to the scendants of Englishmen and tinder English rule. hospitality of the queen, and it is proposed, there- They have the same, but no other claim for their fore, to add to the efficiency of what Mr. Blore country, to the honor of giving birth to Daniel justly calls these essential offices. It is also Boone. sug~csted that a new room should he built for balls The great men of a country are its most estima- and eutartainunents, from which we are given to ble and cherished property, and the honor of giving understand many haVe been excluded simply on birth to such, should he maintained with as much account of the want of accommodation. This hint tenacity as the purity of their fair fame and the will h~ balm to Load Broughem and others who truth of their urreat aet~oes. Among the disti,, may have baan wondering that they were never guished men of A maria, Daniel Boon will ever asked to dine or dance at the palace. Perhaps the hold an enviable rank. 24 LORD BROUGFIAM AND INFANT SCHOOLS. We happen to know something of this matter, would make him but 72. Our family account places and shall endeavor, so far as it lies in our power, his birth in 1230 or 31. i~ set these reviewers right where they are found We learn another matter from these records so widely astray. that the name is uniformly spelt as we have given The PAlowing facts in relation to Daniel Boone it in this article, with the final e. and his family, we have, partly front tradition and ______________________________ partly front records now in our possession, oh- tamed from an aged member of the family, long and intimately known to us. George Boone and Mary his wife arrived at Phil- adelphia, October 10, A. D. 1717, N. S., from Brad- urn nwithin 8 miles (as we learn by another rec- ord) of the city of Exeter, in Devonshire, England. They brought with them, as our tradition states, 11 childrentwo daughters and nine sons. We have direct intelligence only of three of these sons John, James, and Squire, and record of the births, marriages and deaths of the two first. The last, Squire Boone, was the father of Daniel Boone. George Boone, immediately after his arrival in America, purchased a large tract of land in what is now Berks county, which he settled, and called it Exeter, after the city near which he was born. The records distinguish it only as the township of Exe- ter, without any county. lie purchased also vari- ous other tracts in Maryland and Virginia, and our tradition says, among others, the ground on which Georgetown, D. C., now stands, and that he laid the town out, and gave it his own name. His sons John and James lived and died on the Exeter purchase. Squire removed into North Car- olina. hut at what period we only know from the tradinionarv account we received, that it took place when Daniel was in his 14th year. In 1790, or about that period, Daniel Boone re- visited the place of his birth and the friends and relations he had left, and from these we have vcrbal accounts which he gave them of his adventures in Keutti ky, which are preserved in the family with affectionate and pious care. Among these relatives are the Leas, still residing in Oley, Berks county. It would, therefore, require no great research to find almost the very spot of his birth. We show sufficiently, however, that neither he nor his ances- tors came from Somerset as stated, but the latter from Devonshire, and that lie himself was born, not in England at all, but in Exeter, Pennsylvania, in what is now Berks county, and in that part of Ber-s too, be it remembered, called Oley, about which we have before said or sutig much that was good. Flint~ who says in his life of Boone, that the remotest of his aticestors of whom there is any recorded notice, is Joshua Boone, an English Cath- olic, who settled in Maryland, wrote, in this in- stance, at least, in entire ignorance of his subject. Joshua was a family name among the Boones, and may no doubt have been the namne of one of George and Mary Boones nine sons, hut George Boone was not a Catholic, but a member of the English Protestant church. This fact we have from the same source of tradition with other facts here given. We have also a certificate in our possession of the marri ge of James Boone, a grandson of George and Mary, which took place in the English Proics- taut church at Reading Pa Also the record of the death of Judah Boone, another grandson, which adds that he was interred in the Friends burying ground at Exeter. This goes to confirm another of our traditionary accounts, which informs us that ~everal of the fit ily. after their settlement in Penn- sylvania, joined the Quakers. Flint has other gross errors, lie says lie was born in 1746that hs died in 1818aged 84. This A comtmtEsmoNna~T calls our attention to an his.. torical point disputed betwecn Lord Brotigliam and Lord John Russell. The great promoter of useful knowledge thought that he had detected Lord John in a blunder, because the premier calls Mr. Wilderspin the founder of infatit schools: Lord Broiigham says that Robert Owen was the founder; and Lord Lansdowne, the premiers col- league, rather inconsiderately accepts the correc- tion. It is itself an error. In his haste to convict Lord John of an his- torical error, says our correspondent, Lord Brougham has certainly committed a greater in- justice, in depriving Wilderspin of the credit to which he is justly entitled. As far as I can ascer- tain, the facts were these. Oberlin collected young children into large rooms, and by means of women callcd conduc- trices, taught them to read, to sing, and amused them with pictures. Robert Owens primary object appears to have been to keep the young children out of mischief while their parents were at work: they went through some bodily exercises, including measured dancing to a fiddle, and probably some instruction was given them also. The establishments in London were of the na- ture of asyiems for children of the very lowest class, varying from two to eleven years of age. Wilder- spin, whose thoughts had previously been directed to the instruction of the young, took charge of the second of these establishments; amid it was here that he developed, little by little, as circum- stances required or experience suggested, the sys- tem of infant training~ of which he is the atithor. In his own words, (Early Discipline, p. 9,) Every week and day and hour had, in fact, directed our attention to something new; and thus one invention or application followed another, until the whole Infant System, as it now appears, was evolved. It is of very little consequence who first col- lected infants together into a school; but it was Wilderspin who orignated the infant system of training, now in its main features universally adopted in infant schoolswhich gives them life and power for good; and consequently Wilderspin made or founded infant schools as they are. This is the real point of consequence. I fear I have ex- pressed myself very badly; but I think you will perceive the distinction I wish to establish between infant schools in name and infant training schools iU reality. Lord Broughams counter nmistake lay in sup- posing that Owens Infant School and Wil- derspins Infant School were the same thing: Owens being a superior kind of custody in a nur- sery; Wilderspins a real school, which he had most ingeniously discovered the means of adapting to infant understanding. Owen founded one thing, no doubt; Wilderspin ammother. The learned lord, however, admits Mr. Wilderspins merits as a pro- moter of infant training: Lord Brougham knows from personal experience how delightful, after a life of unremitting energy, is a retiring allowance he has studied the subject: it would be graceful in him to back his acknowledgment of a fellow la- borer in the cause of education by lending his help to the Wilderspin Testimonial.Spectator. From Chambers Journal. CARDS, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC. WHERE to, sir! said the cabman, touching his hat, and leaning from the box. Bunnhill Row. In a moment I was off, and very speedily found myself hurrying through Clerkenwell, towards that curious and classic labyrinth of streets conipo- sing the north-east division of the metropolis. The difficulties of Chiswell Street and Barbican were passed, and I was set down at a port-cocher, the limit of my excursion, as the good early hour of eleven sounded from St. Pauls. It was a visit of curiosity. I wished to see one of the most remarkable establishments in London an establishment which could only flourish in the midst of a great and wealthy peopleDe la Rue and Companys manufactory of fancy stationery. The art of writing letters is pretty nearly as old as the hills; hut, till within the last twenty years, there was no such thing as a tastefully-got-up epis- tle. There was a deficiency in the rn6canique of letter-writing. In Norway, at the present day, when a person wishes to write a note, he cuts a piece from a large sheet of paper; and something of this sort was prevalent in England forty or fifty years ago. It was considered a great advance in taste when a paper-maker at Bath got up what he called his Bath posta smooth yellow paper, quarto size, with a small stamp in the corner of the sheet. Matters remained at this point till a comparatively recent period, when the whole business of the station- er underwent a rapid and most extraordinary change the establishment of the penny post alone causing the introduction of many new auxiliaries to epistolary correspondence. It cannot but be interesting to know who has led this great movementwho has filled the ladies writing-cases with finely-tinted note paperswho has given to the world the envel- ope, the enamelled calling-card, and the numerous other elegancies which now fill the shop-window of the stationer. Different active spirits have con- tributed their respective inventions in this useful department of art, but the master-mind has been that of Thomas De ha Rue. Mr. De la Rue is a native of Guernsey, and was bred to the business of a printer. He afterwards abandoned this profession, and was engaged for a number of years in London as a manufacturer of straw-hats. In consequence of the successive changes in fashion, which ended in the general disuse of straw for bonnets, this ingen- ious person was several times ruined; but, possess- ing a boundless buoyancy of temperament, and with inexhaustible inventive faculties, he always alight- ed on some fresh novelty, and recovered his former position. Finally, driven from straw, he fell upon the idea of making bonnets of embossed paper This was a great hit; h,it ladies ~on discarded paper hats, and Mr. De la Rue, forever abandoning bonnets, took up the card and paper trade. He had now a wide field before him, and, in the preparation of various little articles, excited and cultivated the public taste. At the end of twenty years, we tlnd him the elder member of a company, with which are associated two of his sons What was once a small and obscure concern, is now the largest of the kind in the world. Entering by the large gateway of this interesting establishment, I was by the kindness of one of the partners, conducted over the several departments of the worksthe whole nestling in a cluster of old edi- fices, and forming an amusing hive of industry; steam-engines, machinery, and animated beings, CXXV. LiVING AGE. VOL. xx. 2 25 commingling in restless and varied movement. The purpose of nearly all that strikes the eye, is to cause paper to assume new forms and appearances. Of this article forty-five thousand reams, valued at 30,000, are consumed annuallya quantity so great, that it would require three mills for its pro- duction. Of the other articles used, such as colors, oils, varnishes, leather, and gold and silver leaf, the value may be set down at from 10,000 to 12,- 000. I hope it is not trespassing on confidence likewise to mention that even the money paid for gas amounts to 400, and for coal 600 per annum. The coal is employed principally ~ 4~~aces for the steam-engines, of which there are two, one of eight, and the other of fifteen horse-power. With steam- pipes from the furnaces, the whole establishment is safely and economically heated. It will perhaps afford still more impressive considerations of the completeness of the arrangements, when I observe that the first place into which J was conducted was a large apartment devoted exclusively to the making and mending of machines. Here, at massive iron planing tables, and turning apparatus, I found five or six engineers busy at work, preparing lately-in- vented machines of different kinds. Mr. Warren Dc la Rue, by whom some of the most ingenious machines have been constructed, superintends this and other mechanical departments. This young gentleman mentioned to me that they could not pos- sibly conduct their business with satisfaction and profit, unless they had always ready at hand the means of repairing and making machinery; the time lost and trouble expended in getting this species of work done out of the house would be tormenting and ruinous. Adjoining this department is a mill-like apparatus for grinding colors, and materials for enamelling; and further on, in two upper apartments, is a labora- tory, with retorts, mixtures, and a store of bottles sufficient to set up a chemists shop: here is also a chemical library of French and English books, which are in constant requisition. It is deemed somewhat of a favor to be admitted to this depart- ment; for many projects for executing new and peculiar tints and surfaces, likewise processes for electrotyping, not generally known, are here daily in operation. The electrotyping, which is carried on by means of large troughs full of the appropriate liquids, is employed to multiply casts of any en- graved or otherwise figured surface. Mr. Dc Ia Rue has carried his ingenuity so far in this branch of art as to produce an electrotype plate, in copper, from the finest lace, and has hence been able to im- part the effect of lace to printing in colors. How curious that a piece of delicate tissue, taken from a ladys cap, can, by means of troughs, acids, and other materials, along with electric action, be made to produce a solid plate of copper from which the pattern of the original can with facility be printed! Instead of using wax for taking mnoulds ,gutla perc/ma, a newly-discovered substance from Borneo,. has here lately been introduced. It partakes prin- cipally of the nature of caoutcbouc; but with this is combined a certain farinaceous quality, and it therefore retains impressions better than preparations of India-rubber. By the electrotyping process, a very small piece of engraving can be multiplied to any extent; and therefore, supposing we wish the surface of a sheet of paper to be printed all over with a continually. repeated patternfor example, the patterns on tle backs of playing-cardswe need only engrave a single square inch: having got the electrotype rep- CARDS~ LETTER ENVEL0PES~ ETC. LARDS, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC. etitions of the original, they are all soldered together, and the sheet of printing surface is formed. Of what immense value to the arts is this discovery, any one can form an opinion. Mr. De la Rue, however, is prouder of his wire-cloth inventions than of any improvements he may have introduced into the process of electrotyping. In order to pro- duce printing in colors, like the checks of a tartan, or any other diversity of lines, he has succeeded in forming, by means of the Jacquard loom, a cloth of brass wires, each wire being a type so to speak; and the cloth being fixed on a block, it gives an im- pression of great clearness and beauty. The cross- lined colored papers which one sometimes sees in the fly-leaves of books, and on the backs of cards, are effected by this ingenious application. So far I have spoken only of things of a prepar- atory nature, and yet the list is not half exhausted. Above the electrotyping room is one occupied with die-sinkers and engraversmen busy with hammers, punches, and chisels, executing objects to be employed in some of the more elegant kinds of print- ing. Besides these artists, many individuals, I was told, were employed out of doors in designing pat- terns. On this branch, indeed, some of the best artists in London are occasionally engaged. Nov- elty and taste are never for a moment neglected. Mr. De la Rue mentioned to me that he sometimes gives as much as 20 or 30 for the drawing of a design not larger than your hand. The best classic models of antiquity are sought out, and so likewise have there been procured some of the most tasteful designs after Saracenic originals. Perfect novelty, however, is a governing principle. The object of the concern is to maintain a high character for orig- inalityto copy from no one, English or continental. Formerly, in England, few or no manufacturers thought of going to the expense of employing designers, and consequently designers did not exist amongst us. In the chief manufacturing towns there might have been here and there a dissipated man of genius, who, when he could be laid hold of quite sober, would, for a guinea or so, furnish a de- sign, such as it was; but there was no principle in the thing, and almost every manufacturer copied from French originals; the more enterprising among them bribing French workmen to send early copies of what they had begun to execute. The necessity for competing with continental manufacturers in the home market, consequent on the late free-trade measures, has, among respectable men, put an end to this meagre and shabby state of affairs. Every respectable tradesman, who desires to avoid follow- ing among the mere herd of imitators, not only employs skilled designers, but is constantly racking his brains how he is to maintain his place in the market. It sounded new to me, in general prin- ciples of trade, to be told that no man can now ex- pect great success in any fancy manufacture unless he competes with himself. Competition with others wont do any longer. The true art consists in not waiting to be stimulated by rivalry, but in bringing out fresh novelties at proper times, one after the other, and so gaining a command, as it were, over the public taste. I was taken with this idea of Mr. IDe la Rue; it showed him to be a master in his craft. Having heen conducted through the preparatory departments of the establishment, I was now intro- duced to what forms a principal branch of manufac- ture. This is the making of playing-cards, which engages a considerable number of hands, and sev- eral machines and presses. The figures on playing- cards are among the earliest things mentioned in the history of printing; and there they are, with scarcely any alteration, till the present day. While the figures, however, remain pretty much what they were, there has been a great advance in the mode of manufacture, and also in the quality of the card. Formerly, the figures were stencilled in water- colors; and some makers, it is believed, still con- tinue this clumsy process. Mr. IDe la Rue, some years ago, introduced the improved plan of printing the cards with inks, or colors in oil, by which means no degree of rubbing or moisture of the hand can move the figures. At one time, playing-cards were plain on the back; now, they have generally backs printed with fanciful figures; and therefore each side of the card requires its own appropriate printing. Let me first speak of the face. A sheet of paper, containing forty cards, is printed at once. If the card have figures of only one coloras, for instance, all spades, which are black; or all hearts, which are redthen one impression is sufficient. But if there be several colors, as in the case of the honors, each has a separate impression from a dif- ferently engraved block; the last impression corn.. pleting the figure. In executing a knave of clubs, for example, they first print his eyes, and other parts about him which are blue; an impression from a second block fills in the reds; a third imparts the yellows; a fourth the flesh color of the face; and a fifth gives the blacks. Each court-card, therefore, requires to go through the press five times; but, to save trouble, a large quantity of one color are executed at a time. Sheets for the backs of the cards are printed in a similar manner, but on paper which has been tinted in making. The printing of playing-cards, numerous as are the impressions they must nndergo, is but a small part of the manufacture. Having seen the printed sheets carried away to the drying-room, we pro- ceeded to the pasting process. This was a greater novelty to me than printing. I was first taken into a side-room, where were several women mingling together sheets of paper of different qualities, ac- cording to certain prescribed arrangements. When a pile of sheets was completed, it was carried away to the pasting-room. Here there were two long tables, with a number of men at work. Each of these had on his left a pile of the mingled sheets, and on his right a tub of paste. Lifting a sheet with his left hand, and laying it on the bench be- fore him, he speedily smeared it over with the great paste-brush he held in his right; next were laid down two sheets, only the uppermost of which was pasted; id thus there arose a great pile of pasted sheets, with uripasted intervals. The whole opera- tion was performed in a rapid and business-like way, with all the regularity of a machine. The brush, which seemed to be made of soft bristles, was as large as the besom of a housemaid, hut without any handle; and I was assured that so methodic do the men become in their movements, that the brush in each case performs precisely the same curvilinear evolutions. In this manner, from years end to years end, do these men work away with their great broad pasting-brushes, construct- ing the internal part of playing-cards. Coarse is this hranch of labor appears, it is reckoned one of skill, and is accordingly well paid. The weekly wage of a good paster is about two pounds; some can realize as much as fifty shillings. The making of the paste is a separate branch; men being con- stantly employed in an adjoining room, over huge cauldrons, preparing this material2 which chief.y 26 CARDS, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC. 27 consists of fine flour; but a substance like whiting liquid, the object of which is to harden them, and is also infused, in order to give solidity to the card. render them impervious to the moisture of the The quantity of flour consumed annually is four hand. Following the principle already alluded to, hundred sacks, from which two hundred gallons of the wash, which has a glazing effect, is of a differ- paste are prepared and used daily. ent kind on the two sides, although to the naked The pile of sheets, while dripping wet being eye the gloss is the same on both. These washes taken from the paster, is placed in a hydraulic being dried, the card-hoards are placed between press, and being there subjected to a hard pressure, sheets of hrass, and passed, a few at a time, be-, the sheets hecome well squeezed together. A long twixt milling-rollers. They are now carried to a row of hydraulics stands hehind the pasters for this hydraulic press for flattening; and here, having purpose. The sheets are afterwards separated into been subjected to a pressure of a thousand tons, boards, and hung up to dry. The pasting of the they are taken out in the hard, flat, glossy condi- figured sheets to the front and back of the board is tion in which they come under the eye of the pub- a final operation; and when this is done, every lic. board consists of forty cards. There is yet, how- Removed from the pressing-room, the boards ever, much to be effected in the way of drying, next migrate to the cutting apparatus. With this smoothing, and cutting. The drying-room is an machine a man cuts them, individually, first into extensive series of vaults, to which I was let down long slips, and next across into single cards. With 1w an apparatus called a left. The moist boards such accuracy is this operation performed, that al- being dropped down in large quantities by this ma- though the cutter turns out 20,000 cards in a day, chine, are hung on poles, and dried by the heat of all are precisely the same dimensions The sorting five hundred feet of iron pipes, through which into qualities next takes place, and requires much steam from the engine is blown. To ventilate and sharpiiess of hand and eye. Inspected minutely as remove the moisture from the vaults, a fan is kept they pass through the hand, they are thrown into constantly rotating and propelling air at the rate of three heaps, from one of which are made up packs 2000 cubic feet per minute. Having undergone a called Moguls; from the second are made u~ Har- due baking in this warm and airy oven, the hoards rys; and from the third Highlanders. The Mogul are lifted to a second floor, to which we shall follow cards are of prime quality and big best price; they them. have no speck or flaw on either hack or face. The The second floor exhibits a busy scene of rolling Harrys have each a single speck on the back or and other apparatus, with great quantities of paste- face; and the Highlanders have one or more specks boards and sheets in different stages of advance- on both sides. Why the portraits of the Great Mo- ment. When a card-board reaches this depart- guI, Henry VIII., and that of a Highlander, should ment, it is for the purpose of being rendered per- have been adopted as a cognizance on packs of fectly smooth on the surface. Some persons would playing-cards, I have not heard explained. think that this end could be best effected by at once To complete the history of the manufacture, I passing the boards nuder the severe pressure of might say something of the wrapping-tip, the pay- metal rollers. This is a natural, but erroneous ing for engraved aces of spades to government, and idea. On looking with a microscope at the surface the exportation of untaxed packs; but all this may of a card-board just come from the drying-room, it be left to the imagination; and it is enough to say, is found to consist of a series of small protuber- that of one kind or other, the concern I am speak- ances or hillocks. Now, if these were at once ing of makes and sells a hundred thousand packs flattened by rollers or other means, the tops of the annually. The quantity of cards paying duty is- hillocks would be crushed down partly over the in- sued by the different makers is, I believe, about termediate valleys, leaving minute portions of the two hundred thousand packs in the year, besides valleys uncmushed; consequently, in shuffling cards, which, probably double the quantity are made and one woi]ld, to a certain extent, catch on another, exported duty free. The consumption of playing- To avert this, the card-boards are, in the first cards in tire United Kingdom is, to all appearance, place, burnished all over with a rapidly-revolving stationary, notwithstanding the continual increase brush, which searches into every hollow, and of population; it would, however, be rash to as- sweeps away any loose particles of matter. The cribe this altogether to a gradual diminution of next step is to level both sides by rollers; but card-playing propensities. It is believed that here, again, a remarkable principle in mechanics is there is a prodigious sale of cards with surrepti observable. Two surfaces smoothed in the same tious stamps; and it is Mr. IDe Ia Rues opinion, manner will not glide over each other so well as if founded on a knowledge of the trade, that, were they he smoothed differently. In smoothing the card- the duty reduced from a shillig to threepence per board, therefore, it is passed between two rollers, pack, the government would derive ten times the the lower of which is of metal, and the upper of amount of revenue from this branch of manufacture. paper; both are equally smooth, but they impart a At one time Russia was one of the best custom- certain variety in the dressing, to cause a sufficient- ers in Europe for playing-cards; but this trade is ly easy gliding of the cards, face and back. Thc now at an end, in consequence of that country hay- paper roller is prepared in a way which no one ing engaged in the manufacture itself; nor, judg- could expect. A great pile of sheets being pasted ing from the quantity it makes away with, does together, squeezed to the hardest possible consist- this step seem unreasonable. In Russia, card ency, and dried, the mass is fixed on a spindle, and playing is a universal amusement, and will in all turned on a turning-lathe; the result is a smooth, probability continue to be so while the people re- round beam, the surface of which consists entirely main illiterate, and political speculation is attended of edges of paper, but the whole of as close a text- with danger. To supply the demand for cards, the tire as a piece of finely-polished wood. government took the fabrication of the article into The operation of finishing is not yet by any its own bands, and with much liberality not only means over. After being taken from the smooth- purchased from Mr. De Ia Rue a knowledge of the ing rollers, the boards are transferred to an appara- manufactrv-e, but induced his brother to take the tus for giving them a wash of certain kinds of entire charge of the establishment in which the 28 CARDS1 LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC. cards are made. The quantity of cards thus made annually for Russian consumption is a million of packs, the profits on the sale of which are devoted to charitable purposes. Hitherto I have spoken only of the manufacture of playing-cards, but it will be understood that vis- iting and other kinds of cards are made much in the same manner. Of all the varieties of cards which exist, playing-cards were the original type. Forty or fifty years ago, the only blank cards in use were the parings or other waste of cards for playing, and it was on trimmed morsels of this waste that visitors were in the habit of inscribing their names when they made a call. The fashion of leaving cards having at length established itself among our national customs, small blank cards of a superior kind were made on purpose, and now we find every variety which can be desired. Lat- terly, enamelled cards have been in vogue, and the making of these has become an important branch of Mr. De Ia Rues manufacture. So, likewise, has the making of railway tickets of late assumed a more than ordinary importance. Nearly all the rail~vays in the United Kingdom procure their tick- ets from this establishment, each having its own pattern as respects color and device. The card- hoards for these tickets are cut by boys with such rapidity, that the eye can scarcely follow their movements. The aggregate quantity of tickets produced by the establishment is at present a util- lion and a half weekly. From the card-making department I was led into that which is devoted to the preparing of post-office and other envelopes; but I must postpone what I have to say on that interesting branch till another occasion. On being conducted into that department of Mr. IDe la Rues establishment which is devoted to the making of post-office envelopes, I had before me a busy scene of machines and human laborers pulleys whirling overhead, belts driving wheels below, and an incessant clank-clanking noise, which renders it necessary to speak somewhat louder than a whisper, if one has any particular wish to be heard. With respect to the material on which all this activity was exerted, I had seen it prepared some time ago at a mill in ILertfordshire. It is made, like any other ordinary paper, at a machine, and with a sufficiency of size in the pulp to prevent the ink from running. The introduction of the threads is a matter of extreme simplicity. From reels sus- pended over the pulpy substance as it goes belo~v the first pair of cylinders, threads are led down and inextricably crushed into the web. After being cut into sheets, the paper is taken in reams to the factory which I was now visiting. When the paper comes into the hands of Mr. Dc la Rue, it is so far unfinished on the surface that it requires to be milled, by being put through rollers in the manner which I have already described for smoothing sheets of paper or card. So much care is taken to insure finish of surface, that each sheet is milled five or six times before it is considered per- fect. When it has undergone this tedious process, the sheets are laid in handsful, of about six inches thick, beneath a cutting apparatus, which, for want of a better simile; I must describe as acting on the principle of the guillotine. A great broad knife is pressed by a powerfiul action down on the paper, and with the utmost ease severs the mass in twain. having been cut into, breadths, the paper is next, by the same instrument, formed into lozenge shapesthis producing the least possible waste of material. In this form the paper is handed to the succeeding machine, where, coming under the action of descending angular chisels, small pieces are smartly notched from the corners, and the en- velope is made, all except the stamping and folding. Following a natural course of things, the envel- ope paper might now be expected to be camed to an adjacent apparatus for impressing the medallion stamp, which is to give it currency through the post. Circumstances divert it from this direct course. The presumed necessity for keeping a careful watch over the dies, prevents government from employing any but their own officers to im- press the medallions, and the operation is accord- ingly performed at Somerset House. which, with a knowledge of this eccentricity of movement, I had visited the day previously. Conducted down to one of the lower floors of this large government office, I there found, in an apartment overlooking the Thames, a number of machines, of a very pe- culiar construction, engaged in stamping or print- ing the medallions. These machines, which, I believe, are the invention of Mr. Edwin Hill, su- perintendent of the stamping arrangements, may be considered as forming a combination of the printing- press and die-stamping apparatus. All are moved by a steam-engine of two-horse power. At each press are two lads, one placing the papers below the die, and the other removing them. The impres- sions being effected at the rate of sixty in the minutean amazing celerity considering that the die is inked at every impressionthe laying down and taking up require a sharp eye, and no small expertness of fingers. In such processes, every little matter requires to be studied, in order to econ- omize time and trouble. Were a boy to try to lay down sixty pieces of paper in a particular manner within the period of a minute, without once missing, he should certainly fail in the attempt, unless he arranged the papers in a way convenient for handling before he began. The spreading out of the papers into handsful, in the shape of a fan, is on this account an indispensable preliminary in the operation I am now describing. I was told that there is even a knack in rapidly forming the fans. After much ex- perience, it has been found that it can be most expe- ditiously done by throwing the papers on a table covered with soft cloth, and passing a brush over them. Who, on using an envelope, could imagine that the mere mode of handling it has been a sub- ject of so much solicitude In stamping, the die is suspended over the paper on which it is to be impressed, and consequently the inking is effected by rollers pressing upwards. Having thus to work contrary to gravity, the rollers require to be artificially pressed upon the die; and Mr. Hills device of springs acting on the rollers to accomplish this object is at once simple and ingen- ious. So also is there great merit in the method of shortening and lengthening, at each impression, the screw and bolt apparatus to which the die is sus- pended, in order to afford room and time for the action of the rollers. It consists in interjecting and withdrawing a piece of metal at every lift and descent of the screw over the bolt: in other words, the power acts, first, by means of a rapidly-worlung screw; second, the piece of metal which is pushed below it; and third, the bolt to which the die is attachedall three being kept in a vertical line by the supports of the apparatus. The number of papers stamped by each press is, as I have said, sixty per minute, at which rate several machines, CARDS, LETTER ENVELOPES, ETC. with their attendants, work six hours daily; which, although little more than half the time occupied in ordinary printing-houses, is, all things considered, a fair amount for a government office. Stamped and counted, the envelopes now retrace their steps to Mr. IDe la Rues establishment, to which I again invite attention. Greatly as I had been delighted with the operation of stamping, I was still more pleased with that which now came under my notice. In folding an envelope, six movements are necessary. First, the paper must be laid down; four flaps must next, one after the other, be turned over; and sixthly, the envelope must be withdrawn, to make way for its successor. All these movements, except the laying down, are performed by a machine of the height and size of a small table, with some interesting apparatus arranged over its surface; the whole the united invention of Mr. Edwin Hill and Mr. Warren De la Rue. A boy having laid down a lozenge-shaped paper, a hammer falls, and knocks its square central part into a crevice; and on the hammer rising, we see the four corners standing erectthe envelope having taken the form of a box, with standing sides and ends. A broad iron thumb, as I may call it, now rises and presses down one of the ends, another thumb presses on the opposite end, and next the two sides are similarly flattened. The envel- ope being now made, an iron arm comes forward with a rapid jerk, and with two fingers draws it away. It is not drawn aside into an indiscriminate heap, but is brought to a halt upon an endless strip of cloth, which, travelling over two rollers at a slow rate, gathers the mass of envelopes into regular bings, and thus obviates the necessity for shaking them even. The action of what I call the fingers is curious. Instead of drawing away the envelope, as if by hooked claws, the effect is produced merely by touch, the same as if you were to pull towards you a sheet of paper by the tips of two fingers. How two metal pointers could perform this delicate ope- ration is the wonder. It is indeed a curiosity in art. The explanation is, that the pointers are tipped with India-rubbera substance which will readily draw aside any light object by the touch, as an experiment with a morsel of rubber and sheet of paper will convincingly show. The interest at- tached to this apparatus is increased by observing that when the boy fails to place an envelope-paper on its appointed place, the two fingers are projected outwards and do not dip down to draw the envelope asideas if there was a consciousness in the ma- chine that any effort on this occasion would be thrown away. The whole of the process of which this affords the scantiest outline, is a rapid evolution of parts all acting in harmony to effect a particular end, and without any perceptible interval of repose. The rapidity may be judged from the fact, that two thousand envelopes are folded per hour, or twenty thousand in the day. Yet this degree of quickness, I understand, is already beginning to be considered slow work, and will not be tolerated much longer. I should not be surprised, at my next visit, to see four times as many envelopes made in the hour, and the whole at the same time gummed and counted. As it is, the machine cannot keep the stamp-office supplied; and many girls are employed in executing quantities hy hand-labor. At a former visit a year or two ago, I found that all the envel- opes were folded by girls; and so active were they, that I could not have anticipated the invention of inything more smart and economical. The result shows how useless it is for an onlooker to specu- late on such matters. But still more useless would be the sentimental maunderings of those who affect to lament the substitution of iron and uiower-belts for human muscle and intelligence. The more machines Mr. IDe la Rue introduces into his work- rooms, the greater is the number of hands he requires to employ. So far, said he, from the folding machine robbing our girls of their em- ployment, we have more work for them than ever. One can only have a forcible perception of the truth of this remark, by having visited, as I did, the establishment at two distant periods. On the pres- ent occasion, when conducted into the manual-labor rooms, I found that department thronged from the garret to the cellara houseful of girls, all as busy as possible at agreeable and remunerating labor; many folding at long tables, others gumming, and a third class finally putting the envelopes in pack- ages ready for sale. The place was in itself a fac- tory, and not the least interesting or curious on various accounts. As all the envelopes, whether made by machine or with the folder, pass through this department, I inquired how many were turned out in any given period of time. The answer was, that the quantity of envelopes all together made was seventy-five thousand a-day, or twenty-two and a half millions per annum, but that this was only those stamped for the post-office. The quantity of fancy envelopes manufactured was equally large. This led me to an examination of the kinds of envelopes made without stamps, of which there were numer~ ous varieties in progress. One species were with- out borders; others were bordered with red, blue, or some other fancy color; and a third kind had narrow or broad borders of black for mourning. The preparation of mourning note-papers and envelopes seemed in itself a great concern. The putting on of the black I did not see, that being done out of the house by a person whose business is the blacking of paper. To give you a notion of the extent of this kind of trade, said Mr. IDe Ia Rue, I may mention that we pay 500 a year for merely blacking the edges of note and envelope papers. Equally ready, however, to pay the part of LAllegro as II Penseroso, this great man has not disdained to bring his ingenuity to bear on the important subject of matrimonial stationery. I am rather inclined to think that IDe la Rue prides him- self a little on what he has accomplished in this way. And who that recollects what marriage- cards were a few years ago, can wonder at a man being proud of being the purveyor of such splendid things as now charm the eyes of missesnames, borders, wafers, and true lovers~ knots, all in a blaze of enamel and silver! Pleased with the way in which these pretty arti- cles were got up, I felt a reluctance in quitting the department to visit that part of the premises devoted to enamelling, coloring, and varnishing. Enamel is a wash of a material externally resembling whit- ing, which, after being dried on the card or paper, is smoothed by milling. The mode of applying the wash is the only part worth noticing. I found sev- eral workmen and boys engaged in laying the wash on webs of paper, each three hundred yards long; and this length they finished in half an hour. The actual operator, however, is a machine, and the men and boys are only attendants. The web, in going into the machine, passes beneath a trough, from which the wash issues over the surface; it then comes under the action of an apparatus of brushes, moving in cycloidal curves, by which the 30 CARDS, LETTER ENVELOPES2 ETC. evash is finely equalized; led away from this, the web sinks through a hole in the floor to an apart- inent beneath, where it is caught by a boy, and hung on poles to dry. rhe paper undergoing tins initiatory process of enamelling at the time of my visit was that designed for covers to Chain bers Miscellany of IJseful and Entertaining Tracts, of which some hundreds of thousands have been prepared. The adjoining workroom, in which papers are colored and varnished, had somewhat the appear- ance of a painters and dyefs atelier. At various benches, girls were employed tinting sheets of paper by means of brushes and colors; others were putting varnish on the dried sheets; and a few were laying squares of leaf metal on paper preparatory to future processes. Much of the colored, as well as the metal-colored paper, is designed for embossing; hence it was natural for us next to look in upon the apparatus employed in giving the embossing or stamping finish to the material. Embossing is done in two wayswhole sheets by means of rollers, and small slips by means of powerful stamping ma- chines. In little more than an instant of time, a sheet, formerly smooth, will pass between rollers, on one of which the pattern is engraved, and come out beautifally marked in relief. The appearance of morocco leather is thus given to colored papers. The process of stamping is performed on the ground-floor, in consequence of the enormous weight of the presses. The largest of these ma- chines is about eighteen feet high, weighs twenty tons, and imparts a blow equal to a thousand tons. From my previous acquaintance with machines of this class, I should have expected that the Goliah before me would require great toil in working, and was therefore agreeably surprised to find that it performed the falling and rising process with com- parative ease and equability. Two men only were in attendance upon it: one placed the slip of paper below the die, taking it out when stamped; the other guided the movement, by putting the machine in and out of gear with the steam power. The blow being given with a rapid and ponderous jerk, which shook the ground and building, the reaction caused the screw to run back, leaving time to shift the paper for the ensuing impression. The article which was in hand during my visit was what few persons could have expectedthe fancy slip of paper which is wrapped round pieces of linen. It is very true that linen is not a whit the better for ornaments of this kind; but it is equally undeniable that people are taken with such embellishments: the eye is pleased if not the judgment, and how much are all, mankind imposed on by what charms the senses! As to the slip in question, what was it radically but a bit of paper, not worth a farthing Yet what did art not do for it~ In the first place, it daubed it over with a pea-green color; next, it gave it a gloss rivalling the surface of polished marble; then it pasted upon it, in the form of a medallion, a small representation of a flower on a white ground; after this, it laid leaves of gold upon it; and lastly, giving it a blow with a die, there sprung up in relief a beautiful golden efflorescence, surrounding the medallion, and radiating over the delicate green expanse of the slip. The execution of the design on the die was an important step, not to be overlooked; for independently of all manual labor, the drawing, effected by one of the first artists of the day, cost as much as twenty guineas. Thus it is that things are done on a great and liberal scale in large factory conceins; the most insignificant materials being exalted to a high value by the varied and ingenious operations of artists and artisans, set to work by capital and enter- prise.* In the same department I observed several smaller stamping-presses engaged on different arti- cles requiring to be embossed. One was employed in embossing a highly ornamental calling card: the relief in this instance, however, being open, to re- semble lace. The card being first embossed by a blow of the die, is next laid, face downwards, on a block, and in this position the raised dots are filed off; consequently, on taking it up, we find that the embossing is full of small holes. Another press was engaged in stamping leather for the covers of work-boxes and writing cases. Near to this scene of labor I was shown the process of printing in metals. A number of small presses of an ordinary kind, and several men and women, are here occu- pied. Printing to resemble gold and silver ha~ been brought by Mr. Dc Ia Rue to considerable perfection; and yet it is so simple, that I can see no obstacle to its general use. Properly speaking, the metal is not printed, but laid on the typography after the sheet comes from the press. Instead of ink, the types are rolled in a olutinous substance, to which metal in powder readily adheres. The metal, to resemble gold, is an oxidised brass; and so vast has become its consumption, that there is now a manufactory of the article in London. Beat first into leaf, it is afterwards ground to powder; and the daubing of this powder on the typography appears to be the duty of the work-women. In this manner all those covers of packages containing note-papers which blaze in gold and silver, are pro- duced. After printing and metalling, the papers go through a wash and milling, to impart a glossy finish. From the metal-printing department I was led up stairs to that in which are manufactured all vari- eties of portable writing-desks, work-boxes, and cases, also portfolios, albums, needle-books, and other loves of articles that no young lady could for an instant see without meditating an attack on papas pocket. here, likewise, I was made con- scious for the first time of that great work of art a portable chess-boarda thing made of paste- board, which, with pieces and all, you can fold up in your pocket, so as to be able to carry on a game in a stage-coach, railway carriage, or steamboat. Invented by a learned professor, this little affair has, to use De la Rues gratulatory expression, taken root, and is therefore likely to turn out a good thing for the concern. To chess-players, I should imagine it to be an indispensable pocket companion. Unable to save themselves, they may just aswell go and buy one of these portable boards at once, as wait to perform that act ungraciously afterwards. I had now seen pretty nearly into all the odd nooks of this interesting establishment, and my last move was into the store-room, in which were engaged ten clerks and packers, despatching goods to all parts of the empire. Here, in conversing with one of the partners, I learned that the whole house is under from fifteen to twenty foremen, with * While on this subject, it is not out of place to speak with admiration of the embossing of card-hoard by Messrs. Dobbs, Bailey, and Co., of ia4 Fleet street, London. By them has-relief copies of the cartoons of Raphael, aud the masterly pictures of Wilkie, also relievo maps of different countries, have been executed with much taste and at a comparatively insignificant cost. UARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD. each of whom a debtor and creditor account is kept, as if he were an independent tradesman. It is only by such minute arrangements that a dispersed miscel- laneous establishment like this could be conducted with propriety or advantage. At any given time, it can be ascertained whether any particular branch is yielding work proportional to the expenditure upon it. A number of the foremen were originally lads employed in the early years of the establish- ment; and with them, as well as with others, the masters are upon a most amicable footing. Solicit- ous to improve the condition of all in their employ- ment, the proprietors have latterly induced them to abandon the practice of taking beer twice during the hours of labor, and in lieu have remitted half an hour from the general days work. A marked social improvement has been the consequence. Latterly, also, a sickness-fund and library have been set on foot in the office. As these useful institutions have a reference to something like three hundred individuals, the degree of benefit is of more than ordinary importance. There was now nothing more for me to see or hear of in connection with this extensive establish- Inent, and thanking my friendly conductors for the trouble they had taken to explain the different pro- cesses, I concluded what I hopc will have been as little tiresome to my readers as to me A DAY AT IJE LA RuEs. From Chambers Journal. HARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD. IT has not unfrequently happened that, at wide intervals of time, certain speculative or inquiring minds have had glimpses of a truthof some great natural fact. They have seen an effect, without being al)le to trace it to a causea portion of an outline, of which they were unable to make a fin- ished picture. A long descent through many brains has seemed to be necessary for the entire elabora- tion of the principle; and although there may be something grand and startling in the discoveries which at times flash upon the world as the result of hazard, yet those which have been the work of thought, observation, deduction, and experiment, carried on laboriously through many years, forcing their way, as it were, into existence, are not the less worthy of our respect and admiration. The history of the discovery of the circulation of the blood by our countryman Harvey, presents itself as an interesting illustration of the views here thrown out. Constituting, as it did, a fact of the highest importance in the human economy, giving a new form and purpose to physiological science, it nevertheless met with the usual fate of great truths, being received with ridicule, jealousy, and detraction. William Harvey was born at Folkstone, in Kent, on the 2d of April, 1578. He acquired the elements of learning at a school in Canterbury, and finished his education at Cambridge. Eldest of a family of nine, he was the only one who manifested any in- clination for science. Having determined on de- voting himself to medicine, he set out, at the age of nineteen, on his travels to France and Germany, visiting the principal anatomical schools on his way to Italy, in which country he studied anatomy for some years under~ the celebrated Aquapendente, founder of the school of Padua. Harvey devoted himself zealously to this pursuit. Before his time, anatomy had been nothing more than a speculative science, distorted by many absurd and superstitious~ 31 notions; and the hindrances opposed to the didsec- tion of the human subject, proved a formidable im- pediment to more accurate or rational researches. Aquapendente had noticed the valves of the veins in his dissections, but it does not appear that he had any idea of their real use or importance. The sight of these was doubtless the cause of Harveys investigations, and moved him, as he says, to write, to find out the use of the motion of the heart; a thing so hard to be attained, that, with Frascato- rius, he believed it known to God alone.~ He goes on to say Almost all anatomists, physicians, and philosophers to this day, do affirm, with Galen, that the use of pulsation is the same with thai of respi- ration, and that they differ only in one thingthat one flows from the animal faculty, and the other from the vital, being alike in all other things, either as touching their utility or manner of motion. It is evident that he was not unwilling to do justice to the labors of his predecessors, for elsewhere, to use his own words, he is thinking to unfold such things as have been published by others; to take notice of those things which have been com- monly spoken and taught, that those things which have been rightly spoken may be confirmed, and those which are false, both by anatomical dissec- tion, manifold experience, and diligent and accurate observation, may be amended. Once on the track, Harvey followed it up with unflinching perseverance: new facts came to light, and cheered him on with the hope of ultimate suc- cess. Observing, he remarks, the valves in the veins of many parts of the body so placed as to give free passage to the blood towards ihe heart, but to oppose the passage of the venal blood the contrary way, I imagined that so provident a cause as nature had not thus placed so many valves with- out design.~~ At length Harvey believed he had hit the nail on the head ; and having become a fellow of the College of Physicians at the age of thirty, he was appointed professor in 1616, when he commenced a course of lectures, and for the first time modestly announced his great discovery of the circulation of the blood. Content to go no farther for a tlm~ than in the hints thrown out, he waited with patience, until time had fully matured his views, before he gave them to the world. In the year 1628, when he was fifty years old, his researches were first published at Frankfort, in a small quarto volume, entitled .E ercitatio Anetomica de Motu Qordis t~t Sanguinis,* dedicated to Charles 1. In this work, as has been truly observed, Harvey, by his genius, followed nature in her windings, and forced her to unveil herself. Scarcely one of the proofs which demonstrate the circulation escaped his re- searches; he showed it not only in certain parts, but followed it to its recessesto the liverwhere other anatomists had lost themselves. His hook is one of the rare essays which exhaust the subject; it is short and comprehensive, clear and profound, dictated by reason and experience. f He had diligently and perseveringly extended his inquiries beyond the human subject, with a view to verify his facts by comparison. The king, who, with all his errors, entertained enlightened views on science generally, placed at his physicians di~ posal the deer in the royal parks near London; and in addition to these, the zealous anatomist minutely * Anatomical Researches on the Motion of the Heart and Blood. Haller called this work Opusculu~n Aureuni, (small golden treatise.) t Senec. Traits de Cc~ur. 32 HARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOO1~. examined the hearts of other mammalian animals, anatomical points relative to this phenomenon, and as well as of birds and fishes. His book contains were altogether ignorant of the important part an explanation, in clear and concise language, of played by the lungs in this great function. The the general mechanism of the circulation, and in- Chinese were said to have been acquainted with the contestable proofs of the truth of his theory. His movement of the vital fluid from time immcmorial; own words will best convey the certainty and accu- an assertion which appears to have solely rested on racy of his views. In the chapter on the action the attention always paid to the pulse by that singa- and office of the heart, he remarks First of all, lar people. Hippocrates is the earliest author who the ear (as the auricle was then called) contracts makes any allusion to the subject; he speaks oh- itself, and in that contraction throws the blood with scurely of the usual motion of the blood and distri- which it abouiids, as the head-spring of the veins, bution of the veins. Plato represented the heart as and the cellar and cistern of blood, into the ventri- a species of divinity, that poured out blood to ev- des of the heart. After its passage through the ery member of the body; and Aristotle, who uses lungs and body, it returns to the heart, as to the the word arteria for windpipe, speaks of a recurrent fountain or dwelling-house of the body;. and there motion of the blood, comparing it to the ebbing and again, by natural heat, powerful and vehement, flowing of the sea in the well-known channel of it is melted, and is dispensed again through the Euripus these opinions were, however, founded body. The pulse of the arteries is nothing but the on mere conjecture, not on actual demonstration. impulsion of blood into the arteries. Galen, who believed that the veins originated in the Harveys biographer, Dr. Friend, writing on the liver, endows the body with three kinds of spirits, discovery, observes As it was entirely owing to natural, vital, and animal, corresponding to the same him, so he has explained it with all the clearness number of faculties or functions. The seat of imaginable; and though much has been written on the natural was in the liver, for the growth and that subject since, I may venture to say his own support of the body; the vital he assigned to the book is the shortest, plainest, and the most convinc- heart, for the development and carrying about of ing of any. We find the celebrated Boyle, who heat; and placed the animal in the head, as the was contemporary with Harvey, not less candid. source of sensation and motion. The arteries were He remarks in his philosophical works Late supposed to be nothing more than passages for air experiments having shown the use of the bloods or spirit, as after death they were found empty; circulation, and of the valves in the heart and veins from which circumstance they derive their name. (which, the famous Dr. Harvey told me, gave him Cicero, in his treatise, De Nalura Deorum, has the the first hint of his grand discovery,) we at length phrase Sanguis per venas, et spiritus per arte- acknowledge the wisdom of the contrivance, after it had escaped the search of many preceding ages. The extreme care with which Harvey must have pursued his inquiries, may be best understood by what is perhaps the most striking phenomenon in his important discoverythat of the independent motion and life of the blood itself. He noticed the gradual cessation of movement in the ventricles and auricles in dying animals, and goes on to say But besides all these, I have often observed, that after the heart itself, and even its right ear, had, at the very point of death, left off beating, there manifestly remained in the very blood which is in the right ear an obscure motion, and a kind of inun- dation and beating.~ It might be supposed that a discovery of this nature presented nothing to shock the prejudices, or disturb the interests, of any portion of the com- munity. Yet, as remarked in Wottons Reflections, a great many put in for the prize, unwilling that harvey should go away with all the glory. A host of those who are always ready to combat facts by reasoning fell upon him. He was overwhelmed with contradictions from the learned, and neglected by the public generally; and as soon as his claims were contested, his practice as a physician materi- ally diminished. Such was the acrimony of his opponents, that he was denounced to the king as guilty of improper dissections; an accusation which, had he not enjoyed the favor of the sovereign, might have been attended with fatal consequences, in a day when violent prejudices prevailed against ex- periments on the human subject. Many asserted that the discovery was nothing new; that it had I been known long before: others contended for the honor as due to themselves; and some referred it to Hippocrates, from whom Harvey was said to have stolen it. The ancients, in reality, knew neither the theory nor the laws of the circulation. They entertained the most absurd ideas on many physiological and rias. These doctrines prevailed until the time of 5cr- vetus, who, better known as a theologian than physician, fell a victim to the religious fanaticism of the Calvinists of Geneva. His writings contain many remarkable facts; among others, a descrip- tion of the pulmonary circulation, with which it appears he was imperfectly acquainted. His sup- positions, however, were not founded on actual ex- periment. Like Galen, he made the body the abode of three spirits; one of which, the a& ial spirit or pneuma, was seated in the heart and arteries. After Servetus, Columbus, a physician of Cremona, threw further light on the circulation through the lungs, yet he remained entirely ignorant of the part played by the arteries. To him we are nevertheless in- debted for a description of the uses of the valves of the heart. He was followed by Cusalpinus, first physician to Pope Clement VIII., who held some clear views on the subject; but being contin- ually engaged in scholastic disputes, his allusions to it are, in most cases, incidental and obscure; and notwithstanding his verification of the labors of his predecessor, his works abound in glaring errors. With the exception of applying a ligature, below which he noticed the swelling of a vein, he appears to have added nothing new to the theory of the circulation. Amid all this ignorance of the true functional action, the wildest speculations prevailed. The heart was taken as an oracle, and its beats were listened to as prophetic. Some contended that the use of the veins was merely to keep the blood in equilibrium, and prevent undue accumulation in any part of the body. Others, again, bewildered themselves with calculations on the power of the heart, and believed that it exerted a force equal to 3,000,000 of pounds; a notion speedily combated by a third party, who proved, to their own satis- faction, that the power did not exceed eight ounces. Although modern science has stripped )IARVEY AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD. off these marvellous attributes from what Senac calls the material soul of living bodies, and made it a hydraulic machine, yet we find no less cause for wonder and admiration at its mysterious powers. To return to Harvey. It was for removing this mass of error, for laying bare the most admirable mechanism the world has yet seen, that he was as- sailed by the envious and ignorant frim every quar- ter. How well he did his work, we learn from Jenty, according to whom, he, ~vith indefatigable pains, traced the visibic veins and arteries through- Out the body, in their whole progress from and to the heart, so as to demonstrate, even to the most incredulous, not only that blood circulates through the lungs and heart, but the very manner how, and the time in which that great work is performed. To this indefatigable pains we doubtless owe the six large diagrams, of the size of life, still pre- served in the College of Physicians, showing all the blood-vessels of the human body; and prepared with such nicety, as to display distinctly the semi- lunar valves at the entrance of the aorta, by which he used to illustrate his lectures. The delivery of these lectures, however, involved him in much suf- fering and loss. In the confusion and riots of the civil war, his. house in London was pillaged and burnt, with many valuable papers, whose destruc- tion was irreparable, and caused him constant re- gret. In the eyes of his contemporaries, he was looked upon only as a dissecter of insects, frogs, and other reptiles. And on the authority of Au- brey, we learn that Harvey said, that, after his booke of the Circulation of the Blood came out, he fell mightily in his practice. * * * T was be- lieved by the vulgar he was crackbrained; and all the physicians were against his opinion, and an- noyed him. The persecution of Harvey appears to have been prompted only by the mean passions of his contem- poraries. No other motive is obvious; for it is difficult to see in what way the craft was en- dangered. In his case, however, as in many oth- cr5, it almost appeared as if men had some strong personal interest in keeping back tho truth, so ea- gerly did they exert themselves to resist it. Car- rere, rector of the academy of Perpignan, wrote a thesis against the doctrine. It was also attacked with greativirulence by Dr. Primrose, and by Rio- lan, the celebrated French anatomist. Harvey nevertheless found friends. Folli, physician at the court of the Medici, the first to attempt the trans- fusion of blood, xvas an ardent propagator of his theory. In his own country, he gained a powerful advocate in Sir George Ent, who published a book in his favor. The motnes and detractors were also replied to in temperate language by Harvey himself. He says I think it a thing unworthy of a philosopher, and a searcher of the truth, to return bad words for bad words; and I think I shall do better, and more advised, it, with the light of true and evident observations, I shall ~vipe away those symptoms of incivility. To those who taunted him with being nothing more than a dis- sector of insignificant reptiles, he replied, with as much truth as impressiveness, If you will enter with Heraclitus, in Aristotle, into a work-house (for so 1 call it) for inspection of viler creatures, come hither, for the immortal gods are here like- wise; and the great and Almighty Father is some- times more conspicuous in the least and most in- considerable creatures. Harvey attended the king in his journeys during part of the civil ~var, and was present at the battle of Edgehill. He afterwards retired to London, in the neighborhood of which city he passed the re- mainder of his days. In his seventy-fifth year he built and endowed a library and museum for the College of Physicians. He died in June, 1657, at the age of seventy-nine, but not before the truth of his doctrines had been generally recognized; and his own professional brethren were proud to do him funeral honors. He was buried at Hempstead, where a handsome monument, surmounted by a marble bust, was placed over his grave by the Col- lege of Physicians. It was said of him that his candor, cheerfulness, and goodness of heart were conspicuous in his whole life, as well as in his writings, and exhibit a worthy pattern for future imitation ; and that one of his noblest character- istics was love for his profession, and a desire for the maintenance of its honor. What a striking commentary do these facts af- ford on the ignorance and selfishness of society! How easily have the many suffered themselves to be led by the interested few, whose motives were too often of the most despicable character. This is the more to be wondered at, as experience, if not policy, might have dictated the question, cui bond How was this answered in Harveys casel Hobbes says of him, he is the only man I know, that, conquering envy, hath established a new doc- trine in his lifetimeand yet twenty-five years elapsed before this ~vas accomplished. For a quar- ter of a century had this great truth to struggle against the malice, jealousy, and stupidity of its enemies, who denied the discoverers claim to ori- ginality, with as little reason as those who disputed Galileos discovery of Jupiters satellites, on the ground that a Dutchman had previously invented a telescope. Mankind, however, have always been prone to persecute new truths; whether they shall continue to do do, depends greatly on the present generation. Harveys reputation has now nothing to fear. The circulation of the blood is universally admitted to be the first great discovery after the promulga- tion of the Baconian method; and though giants in mind have lived since, with all the facilities which use and example in the inductive method have given, only one greater and more complete discoverythe discovery of gravitationhas ever been made. THE first volume of a work intended to completely exhibit Englands Colonial Empire has just been is- sued by the enterprising colonial publishers, Smith and Elder. The author is Mr. Pridnam, who, in a modest preface, apologizes for having at so early an age undertaken so gigantic a task. The first volume, however, shows no lack of either ability, research, or knowledge. It is occupied with an excellent account of the Mauritius, divided into four parts: the first part gives its history from its discovery by the Portu- guese to the present time; the second dcscribes its inhabitants and their institutions and state; the third its physical features and natural productions; and the fourth its industry, commerce, and government. As we are tied to space, we can only say, that am- ple information is given on all these heads, and that, regarding the extent of the authors design, and the evidence he gives of the requisite qualifications to carry it out satisfactorily, we make no doubt that his work will be a valuable addition to the history and geography of our colonial empire. The present volume is complete in itself.Britannia. 33 THE STORY OF THE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY. From Frasers Magazine. THE STORY OF THE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY.* FEw, if any, of our common-place sayings, are ~ess contradicted than that which asserts all human expectations to be liable to disappointment. So 1 philosophized as I stood on blue Lemans shores, and beheld for the first time Geneva and her far- famed lake. I could scarcely remember a period in my life when I had not imaged to myself more glorious things than even poets, romancers, or phi- losophers had sung or said upon these beautiful shores; and when the wish of my childhood was realized, and I beheld with my waking eyes the vision of my day-dreams, the sensations I experi- enced were those of keen disappointment, mingled with a degree of doubting surprise. is this, then, Geneva lis this the Lake of Geneva l I repeated. Oh, you will be more satisfied when you go to Vev~y ! was the response. And to Vevay I went, and at Vevay I was sat- isfied. A curious little journey it was that I made to Vevay. It has supplied me with remembrances utterly unknown to those of the million who have travelled the same little distance in their own luxu- rious carriage and with their English-speaking courier. The memory of that journey has floated over my brain ever since, until at last it has become a sort of necessity to put its history on paper. I went in a small diligence from Geneva to Vevay. When I had entered it the other places were almost immediately occupied (with the excep- tion of one) by some country-looking women, who certainly had not the smallest pretensions, either in dress, manner, or appearance. One of them was, in- deed, so remarkably and curiously ugly as actually to cease to be disagreeable. I contemplated the combination of ugliness in her face and features with a degree of interest. Another, who sat be- side me, was the prettiest little old creature, for a woman who must have been fast completing the latter part of our allotted scores of years, I think I ever saw. Her color was a lively rose; her bright brown eyes shone with an animation which gave them more than the mere fire of youth. All her features, though, in correspondence with her figure, they were small, were almost perfect in form; but, alas! her lips, which had once undoubtedly been as the opening rose, or twin-cherries on one stalk, had considerably fallen in, for all the pretty dames front teeth had fallen out, and the little pointed chin, with a sort of expression peculiar to itself, was more retrouss6 in consequence. As for the whole face, you could scarcely help smiling when you looked at it. Yet, while its expression was decidedly merry, there was something more than mirth to be read in it, at least by a discerning eye. The ugly woman had an immense pocket in front of her checked apron, filled with roasted chesnuts, which she kept offering with assiduous hospitality to all our company. But while I was engaged in observing the beauty that had sustained the wear and tear of more than threescore years, and the ugliness that had, perhaps, become fondly familiar * The circumstances of this story are related just as they really occurred. But the history of the young coun- tess is here related in the first person, instead of being given in the more lively language of the pretty old wo- man of Vevav. to some loving eyes for half that time, an exclama- tion of dismay, almost amounting to horror, attracted my attention to the door of our vehicle. It came from such an animalsuch a contrast to the diligence and its freight. ItI use the neuter pronoun as the most appropriateit was one of those beings who have appeared in France since Algiers becante one of Ps country townshalf- Arab, and, I was going to add, half-woman in cos- tume. But let me describe it. A short, embonpoint figure, with long curled hair, long heard and moustache; a cap of blue cloth, worked with gold thread, on its head, a loose pelisse of fine purple, with a capote or hood, and wide sleeves, turned up with black velvet nearly to the elbow; very wide trousers, nearly of the same color, terminating round the waist, wiih a splendid sash of heavy silk, brilliant in gold, crimson, and purple dyesa vest most daintily delicate. Is it marvellous that the shriek of dismay had burst from such an exquisite creature on the pros- pect of being immured alive in a diligenec full of such company as I have described l He declared it to be impossible he could enter; and we had to wait a full quarter of an hour in the street while he was debating the important subject. At length, after a violent alteacation with the conducteur on the iniquity of transporting such people from place to place, some s. d. reasons probably made him compromise his dignity, and gathering his clothes as tightly as he could around him, with a deep sigh or moan, a look of suffering, and the prettiest air of mingled heroism and timidity, he put himself and his pelisse carefully into our vehicle, scarcely noticing the offer of the ugly woman to go outside, and leave more room for both articles in the corner he appropriated. I fear I was indulging in reverie on the follies and vulgar impertinences of this strange xvorld of ours, when I was awakened into a broad smile by the ugly ~voman asking the pretty one, with an easy nod of her head towards the fine young monsieur, if he were her gar~on, using the word in one of its sensesbachelor or lover. The hearty laugh of the little old creature it was difficult not to join in, although the horror and aver- 5ion depicted in the rueful face of the subject of their merriment, might have been an antidote to its influence. My gar9on! she cried, turning fully round to the terrified-looking man, and gazing at him as if he were ignorant of their language, or a sort of nonentity with whom reserve was unnecessary my gar~on! he is too young for that, I think; if you had said tny son, indeed, it might well be. Undoubtedly, yes, returned the other, with apparent simplicity, though it was easy to see the simplicity was assumed, and that they were both good-humoredly revenging themselves for the con- tempt of our exquisite companion ; yes, so I meant, certainly. Your son, alt! he is too young to be your loveri ~ee that now The half-Arab darted such a look at me, whole pages of indignant notes of interrogation were written therein. In spite of my politeness, I smiled a well-pleasing answer. He clearly saw that the indignity and insult to which he was exposed met with no sympathy. Besides, he saw me eat some roasted chesnuts which the ugly woman offered me from the great pocket of her apron. So he pru- dently considered that it might be as well not to disturb the suppositions of the two old dames, since, as there were two other female tongues ready to spring into action, it might indeed be only THE STORY OF THE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY. stirring up a hornets nest. So he stayed quite quiet. until, thinking they had gone far enough in their decisions respecting his relationship or future destiny, they began to look out of the windows, and the pretty woman, as if for the first time at- tracted by a great staring notice on the way-side, called out Look there! what folly !they have written up The road for Italy, and it is the road for Vevay ! The utter simplicity of this speech, in our Alge- rian s opinion, quite conciliated his wounded vani- ty, for it was ridiculous to be mortified by such ignorant creatures; and his harmless countenance resumed its self-complacent expression, as he threw tue a glance of condescending pity, and, repeating The road for Vevay ! added, with infinite con- descension, turning to the speaker You have never been farther than from Geneva to Vevay in your life ! while his tone almost syl- labled the inference, I have been to Algiers. Yes, I have been farther, she replied, turning hcr bright, dark, smiling eyes, with a rather know- ing sort of look, upon his face. Indeed not so far as Lyons, however 3 Yes, farther. Impossible! What! to Marseilles 3 Even to Marseilles, she replied, nodding her head, as if she might say more. And what could bring you there3 demanded the travelled man, measuring her with his eye from head to foot; for a Frenchman who has travelled a little thinks a great deal of it, and a travelled wo- man is a sort of wonder. It was on account of an Inclination I had, the old dame answered. I did not understand the word Inclination so used, and the laugh of our fellow-traveller was therefore unintelligible, until he told me that she had gone from Vevay to Marseilies on account of a lover. Was your inclination, then, at Marseilles 3 No, at Vevay. Then you forsook him 3was that the other day 3 with something of a sneer. It was about fifty years ago; I was sixteen then. But how then 3your Inclination was at Ye- vay, yet, on his account, you went to Marseilles, at sixteen 3 still interrogated the other, whose curiosity was evidently overcoming his exclusiveness. Yes, he was too goodtoo high for me ! she replied, and her eye was less bright, and even her cheek less pink, when she spoke the words, though half a century had passed away. You know M. M of Geneva, perhaps3 she added. By name, yes, was the answer; a most !espectable family. Well, it was his brother. An exclamation of wonder was uttered at the intelligence. And he forsook you 3 Pah listen, and you will not say so. Then you married your Inclination 3 Patience I say No! Did you never hear that M. M had one brotheran elder brother, who went away on his travels when he was quite young, and was never heard of more 3 Certainly, that is a, well-known story. Well, he was my Inclination. He lived gen- emily at Vcv;~y with my father; he studied thert, and lodged with us. My fitther was under great oWigations to him. Claude was a few years older than myself; we were almost always together. Well, it is an old story now! He loved meyes I loved him: that is all of it. At last I had passed my sixteenth year; it was high time to be married then. He wished to marry me; he knew his parents would not consentm hut he declared his sentiments to my father, and for his sole answer he received a dismissal from our house, and a command to return to his father. Our Algerian nodded his well-covered head ap- provingly. That was honorable and just to his benefactor. Did your Inclination acquiesce 3 IHe should have taken you off at once. He submitted entirely, hut it is true he whis- pered to me sometimes an assurance that my father would yet change his mind. He was allowed to stay some time longer with us; but, to prevent all danger, my father resolved to marry me to a rich old widower who sought my hand. He had a son older than my Inclination. Bab ! it was a contrast a little too striking! I knew my Inclination would never change his mind, and I could not think of ever marrying any one but him. Assuredly, one should only marry the person one loves. Yes, and then to marry one as old as my father! Well, I knew if I resisted, M. M would be desired to recall his son, and I knew he would regret leaving Vevay, and I knew I ought not to wish to be his wife; so when I saw my father was resolved on marrying me to the old man, 1 said to myself, It is you, Minette, that must de- part. You must leave allfather, mother, lover, Vevay! yes, better leave them all than be degradet? and miserable! I had a comrade, a young girl who had been at Marseilles. I made her my confidante; shb gave me a letter of recommendation to a relatiom. of hers who had a magasin in that town. Finally~ I set out on foot and in secret; I got on I know not how, and reached Marseilles. And your Inclination 3 lie knew no more of me than any one else. When every inquiry had been made for me in vain, he went away, some say to sea, and was never heard of more Well, what did you do afterwards 3 said her curious questioner, who was evidently relaxing into a singular degree of sympathy with the pmettv old woman. I remained at Marseilles; the merchant was good to me; he had no children ; I learned to inanage his affairs; I was quick then, expert at all. Finally, the revolution had broken out; it was the reign of terror. Just then I got a letter from my comrade at Ve~ay; she told me that my old lover, the widower, was dead, that my parents had suffered for me deeply, and her conscience accused her of favoring my departure from them: she told me that my Inclination was gone, no one knew whither, and that they were without joy or consolation. I resolved to return home; I wrote to my father, telling him I was alive and well. I did not ask his forgiveness, but I promised to re- turn to him, and to obey him in all thiogs except in marrying any one but my Inclination. It was very hazardous to travel then, but it was hazardous also to stay still. Some time after I had arranged to return to Switzerland our merchant came to me; he looked pallid and distracted. He called me into his closet, and, shutting the door carefully, asked me if I were detertnined to make that jour- ney. I answered, Yes. 35 STORY OF TIlE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY. These are perilous times, Minette, he said. You are very youngyou are so pretty, too! He went on thus, as if thinking of something else. You are so very pretty, Minette, you are more likely to be observed. Voilk tIn malheur de plus! I replied; but I could not help it, you know. Yet you are prudent, Minette, the old man continued, and you have courage; more, God help me. than I have! I saw now that he had some real cause for anxiety or fear, and I answered him Yes, I have some courage, if you wish to make use of it. Not for myself, my girl, not for myself; but, in short, there is a young lady here who wants to get to Strasburg, if she could travel with you. Certainly ; why not P Ah! these are sad times, my childdanger- ous times. She is ill, Minette ; she must be ill all along the road. You understand, you must be her bonne, her nurse, act for her, speak for her; she must not appear, she must recline in the carriage, and be supported when she descends, well wrapped up, so as not to be exposed to the air. There is much of this sickness abroad now, Mi- nette! I looked at him, and then 1 said Yes, there is, I know, much of this sickness abroad now; it is because the blood is let to flow so freely. You may employ me; I will be the poor ladys nurse. Brave girl! he cried, brave Minette, you have divined all! yes, we can trust you! Come, iou shall see this sick ladythis poor bleeding dove! I never had seen our master thus agitated be- fore; he was always fearful, but now he had cause to be so. The daughter of a noted royalist had taken refuge in his house. He led me upstairs, and, by a long passage, we reached a wall, in which he had made a secret door, to be used in case of danger. This conducted to a large loft be- neath the roof of the house; on entering I beheld a spectacle that yet appears to be present to my eyes. A light and tall figure, clothed entirely in white, lay alone the couch that bad been carried thither; the dress was torn and disarranged, but the feeble lamp-light rendered its whiteness inure discernible than the daylight would have done; for it was dirty, too. A veil of rich lace still partly covered the head, which had no other covering save the rich and beautiful hair which fell from it in the wildest disorder; pieces of white orange- blossoms, fragments of a wreath that had evidently hound it for a bridal-day, were still caught, here and there, in its locks. A slight convulsive tremor caused that form to quiver as we entered; the head was raised; the eyes looked forward with a fearing, inquiring gaze. The paleness of death was on the sweetest face I ever saw in my life. One small spot on the upper part of the cheek was flushed with a fever- ish red. She regarded me fixedly with those large, open, deep blue eyes, as if scarcely conscious of what was going on, yet indistinctly sensible of the relief of a womans presence. The merchant ap- proached her with an air of deep respect, and spoke some words in a conciliating tone. She started on hearing them, looked eagerly at me, and, crying out in a broken and feeble voice She will take meshe will bring me to him ! stretched her arms towards me. I ran to her, she fell on my bosom; I wept, and a few tears then dropped from her eyes. The merchant said Thank God, she weeps! After this I did not leave her. Night came on; she at first resisted my attempts to disrobe her of her soiled and torn, but rich dress. She felt, however, as if against her will, the relief which a bath and a bed afforded, and sank into a sleep that restored her brain, and, perhaps, saved her front madness. She opened her eyes with a cry, an exelama- tion of fear and horror, and the words, My father, my father! When she recognized me at her side, she held out her arms again, like a frightened child, and, throwing herself on my neck, said You are surely my good an~eel! I recognize your looks as such! God tells me by you He will save me. What are you called? she added. Minette, madame. A.h! you need not say madame, I am only mademoiselle. But listen, Minette, you shall know all. Our merchant here is afraid, he thinks you will be so too, and does not wish you to know all, at least till we reach Strasburg Vevay, mademoiselleI go to Vevay. Vevay, then; you will leave me at Vevay, will you? No matter, God sent you to me, He will send me another Minette. I was touched by this piety, and the poor girl continued, Yes, you shall know all, I will not lead you blindfold into danger. I shall have courage now, and calmness, to relate it all to you; you will then know who you will have to do with; and if you have courage as well as goodness, well ; if not, it is better not to deceive. Mademoiselle lay quiet a few minutes, and then having tried to compose herself for the task, pressed her hand on her lovely brow, and said You have heard, Minette, of the dreadful deed committed not more than nine days since in the neighborhood of Vaucluse? Ah, truly, I had! and all the world beside; for the whole population of a village had been murdered, the village itself burnt to ashes, because the Tree of Liberty had been cut down in the night. They cot down the Tree of Liberty! cried mademeiselle, flinging her head upon the pillow, and burying her face in it as if to shut out some horrible image. It was in honor e,f my marriage the fires were kindled, and the guns fired at the poor people! Hush, hush! I said; if you commence thus, you must not go on; and I have no wish to hear anything, unless it may be of use to yourself by showing me how I must act so as to serve you. But if, as you say, your good angel has sent me to save you, will you, by giving way to despair, lose the chanee of saving yourself? You are right, Minette! she answered, with a sob; you are wiser than I am. My senses at times fail me. Pray to God for me, Minette, that I may be calm. I want you to know all, that you may also know what you may have to expect. Listen to me now. My father, the Comte de was the proprietor of the ill-fated district you have heard of; his chateau was not far from 36 STORY OF TIlE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY. that villagenearer to Vaucluse. ,I was his only childhis heiressan idolized one, what need had I to acquire your firmness and patience 1all was softness and peace around me. My mother, hap- pily for her, died some years ago. Many have sought my hand in marriage; hot even from child- hood, my distant relative, Henri de Reuzi, alone had shared my heart with my beloved father. He had loved me, and I loved him as my life. Life! yet it is dearoh, how dear! cried the poor young countess, with an affecting look of feeble- ness; I never knew how dear until I saw that hideous death! There was a youth brought up with me in the castle, Minerte, whom I always knew to be a relative, yet saw treated with the disrespect shown to one in a degrading position ; he was neither among the domestics, nor with their superiors. Emile was the illegitimate son of one of my fathers cousins: he supported him from charity. Latterly, this young man had behaved to me in an extraordinary manner; indeed, his manner was changed to every one. It had become inde- pendent anj overbearing ; he had imbibed the principles of the revolution; he raved of liberty and equality. It was pride urged him on ; he had secretly writhed under the odium affixed to his birth, and felt the degradation to which he ap- peared willingly to submit. He aspired now to be the equal of the heiress of the Comte de V in fact, he dared to declare to me his love; and, bolder still, to demand me from my father. I know not why I treated Emile with so much tendernessgentleness, at least. I pitied him; I saw the cause of his error; I feared also to exasperate him, for I knew of his secret assoct- ation with the revolutionists, and I trembled lest he might expose my dear father, who was an ultra- royalist, though he took no part in politics, to danger. My father, however, either did not share my apprehensions, or partook not in my cautious for- bearance. Indignant at the presumption of the abandoned youth he had protected, he drove him from his presence with reproaches. Emile left the chateau to return no more. Henri de Reuzi, ~vho was then with his regi- ment at Strashurg, had never had roy fathers posi- tive sanction, until the conduct of Emile, and his undisguised threats of yet having power to effect his purposes, led him to reflect on ~vhat might possibly become my position if he ~vere to fall a victiro to the ruthless spirit of the time. His own pure arid noble character, his retir- ing and benevolent disposition, would be no coun- terbalance to his firm loyalist principles, and attachment to his king and the unfortunate queen. Perhaps it was a presentiment that I did not then penetrate, a desire to provide for my safety, which led him to favor De Reuzi, who, though a royalist himself in principle, had powerful friends among the opposite party. Finally, he sent for him, and presented him to me as my hus- band. Ah, Minette! that was a joyful surprise to both. The time that was to intervene before our marriage was short, and busily occupied. I saw my father gravesadoften lost in painful thoughts; but we were so happy, we did not always think even of the horrors that were being perpetrated in our land. I saw even Henri look at times anxious, yet I never noticed the storm that was then lowering over our heads. Our wedding-day was fixed. Previous to its dawn, the Tree of Liberty, which had been erected in the village, was cut down in the night, no one knew by whom. It was evening: we stood before the altar. Minette, I see now the red light from that old stained window in our chapel falling full upon my fathers noble head! She raised herself on her elbow, and looked up to the skylight of the loft. Oh, Father of Heaven ! she cried, and dropped back again; her long hair fell over her face, and hid its emo- tion. I raised her head, and saw that emotion was not expressed there; it was almost calm. Sh& looked at me silently for sc2ne time, and then, holding up the third finger of her left hand, she said See, Minette, it is not here! The ring, mademoiselle? Yes, the ring, she repeated ; and, with a shudder, the hand fell down. You had better tell me no more, mademoi- selle; I can guess the rest. You were a widow before you were a wife! No, no, you are wrong !God grant you may be wrong! Listen now, I cart go on. My father had bestowed this hand, he had given it to Henri de Reuzi; the ring that was to bind me to him forever was already half-way on this finger, there was a cry in the open aira cry at the chapel-doora cry behind us in the aisle! Ihe priest stood still, with terror staring in his eyes : a villager, streaming with blood, staggered towards us; he uttered the words, Save yourselves! and fell. My father, with a face of death, yet com- posed and ever noble in aspect, caught me to his breast, pressed me to the heart where life had nearly ceased to beat, bent his knee before our bri- dal altar, and said God preservepreserve my child, and re- ceive me to thine eternal mercy ! The next instant the chapel was full of bloody men. Alas! alas! that good old priest! There was a long silence. The poor young countess, however, resumed her fearful story, as if unconscious that she had paused. I was in white, Minette; the veil was on my head, and the orange-wreath in my hair, but the ring had fallen from my finger. I was in Avignon instead of being in our own castleinstead of being in our own dear chapel. I did not see the priest, I did not see Henri; I saw my fatheryas, I saw him but for a moment I saw that countenance, pale yet firmthat noble head ! Mademoiselle, I can hear you no longer; this agitation most be fatalfatal, at least, to all your hopes of escape. Escape? Can that be? 1~ that my wish? Yes, escape or death !hut together. I will not distress you further, good Minette; you know enough now. The old palace of the popes at Avignon, its blood-stained tower, that was his scaffold and his tombof sixty more also, nobles of the land! Ah! she exclaimed, with a frantic start, they threw quicklime over them! and a sort of muttering laugh, more terrible to hear than sighs or groans, burst from her dry and quivering lips. Anxious to divert so horrible a recollection, I asked her how she had escaped. I do not know, she answered I do not know why I was reserved, nor where they were 37 ~38 STORY OF TIlE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY. takin me, but I was on horseback, and a guard messenger I can trust. There it is, Minette! that was 1 Iding mjr rein, when I began to recover my was given to me in the cavern; and there is the recoil ~tion. lb elieve we were on the road for ring. See, it has a long lock of Henris hair tied Paris, but it seems as if I had been asleep. We through it! passed a peasant, who uttered a salutation in the I only said to Emile, Is he safe P revolutionary fashion; I think his voice was the Whop he demanded. Your father? and first th~ eg I became sensible to. Perhaps there is his eyes rolled. some mystery even in human tones that exercises No, my husband, I said, emphatically. a powev over the mind. At the door of a cabaret, Yes, I hope so, said Emile, calmly. He my gua..d dismounted to get refreshment. He in- has been sent back to his regiment only; if you vited m~i to do so, and placed me on a chair which have courage you may yet be united. Will you I caught hold of close to the door. Soon after, do as he says? Will you trust yourself to me? the countryman we had passed came in, and in I answered, Yes. passing me, while the loud discourse going on in Emile went away without a word. He re- the roon prevented others from hearing him, he turned with some wine and fruit, made me take told me, in a low voice, not to dismount the next some refreshment, and when night fell, he came time. \Vhat voice was that which spoke to me? again, with a peasants cloak, in which he wrapped I did not know it, yet it was almost familiar. I me, and made me then lie down in a cart that was resolved .o do as I was desired. I became aroused waiting for us. He drove it himself, disguised as to a sens~ of my situation; a keen, anxious long- a laborer. He only said ing for e cape occupied my mind. Evening was You must be my sick wife; I am bringing closing in ; the words said to me made me anxious you to the hospital. for my co iductor to halt again. At last he did so, Thus we made out our road to Marseilles. and called for wine. I declined to get down, and Wrapped in the peasants mantle, with the hood at the m ment the same peasant appeared; and over my head, I might have escaped detection asked to hold the horses. The man promised even had the cart been examined; but Emjle acted him son4e sous for doing so, and entered the his part so well that not the least suspicion was cabaret. even excited, and we reached this merchants The countryman led both horses up and house, who was an old prot~~ of my fathers, and down, making each turn longer, until he saw no known also to Emile. one near, and then he said I want to die, Minette, the young countess Courage, and you are saved! Keep your concluded, yet I want to live, for De Reuzi is seat steadily. still alivemy husband ! lie sprang on the other horse, held the And you will live for him, live with him, I bridle of mine, and we went off with a speed that hopelive to bless God ! I rejoined. - soon rendered me insensible. I was only conscious The next day I engaged a vojutrier for my that we had turned into a bye-road, and after that Swiss lady and myself. I had my passport, and I knew that I was held by my deliverer on the we managed without much difficulty to pass off the horse he rode. countess as the niistress I had come to bring back I opened my eyes sometimes, and saw the to Switzerland. I had provided her with a plain moon shining down upon us, but I could scarcely black dress and close cap, which concealed her tell whether I were still in the land of violence, or beatitiful hair, and made her look so pale and ill, had passed away into that of separated spirits, for that I had generally but little trouble in making all was dream-like and indistinct in my sensations, her pass for an invalid, with whom the greatest I awoke to find myself in a vaulted cavern, one of caution and repose were requisite. At Lyons, not- those rocky abodes frequented by the persecuted withstanding, I was greatly alarmed at the manner Albigenses, and later victims of tyranny in Prov- of the voiturier who had brought us there ; the ence. tone in which he would repeat, This sick lady The sunlight scantily entered at the low of yours, terrified me. door, shadowed by a mass of rock, and, just inter- At Lyons he looked hardly at me, and after ceptirig its ray, stood the form of the peasant who repeating this speech in his usual wayhe was a had snatched me, perhaps, from death. his side- handsome, sharp-looking young manhe demanded face was before me, and 1 looked anxiously at it as a kiss. on that of a stranger; bitt while doing so, he The Arab listener laughed. raised his hand and removed a great red beard and Well, you di(l not give it to the fellow ? mi)ustache, then drew from his head a wig of the I did, though, said the pretty old woman, same c4r, and showed rue the dark face and well- very quietly, and with a careless smile. I said, known features of the recreant Emile. You are a brave voduriera brave man. I thank I uttere~l a 1~w moan of anguish; my dcliv- you for your goodness, and this kiss must be the erance filled me with horror and dismay. He pledge between us that if we want your services in turned his head and saw me, half raised, regard- future they will be rendered. ing him with terrified and distended eyes. He Brave girl! he said, in answer; and this caine near to me; his voice, when he spoke, was kisshe had the complaisance to return the low, but it was like the hushed breath of the whirl- pledge is my promise that my service shall be wind. rendered, and that on the spot. Listen, Minette Pauline, he said, I did not mean you to you are called Minette, they say. Well, I am know me until you knew that, so far as I could your good friend; I do not want to be your lover, save you, you were safe. Read that. I hope you will have a better, but I am your friend. He put into my hand a small slip of paper; it Take my counsel, ano let me conduct yotm into was the writing of De R.enzi. It said, Trust him, Switzerland, there you can do as you like; till he repents; he will save your life at the expense then you will be safesafer, he added, en~phati- of his own. If you are safe, send this ring by a cally, with me. STORY OF THE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY. T gave him my hand, and said There is my faith, come with us if you will. He conducted us safely to Switzerland. Heaven bless ii ~... I never saw him more, but I remember his curling whiskers, and that keen eye, which said a giant could not drive but an in- fant might lead him. We came to Lausanne; the poor coontess threw herself weeping into my arms. You are safe, dear Minette, I cannot wish you to be otherwise; you xviii leave me now. No, mademoiselle, not till you also are safe, I said. We disguised ourselves then as t~vo peasants, and took the costume of Alsace. Mademoiselle looked beautiful, but it was too delicate a beauty to attract sudden notice from the rude people. She wore the short orange petticoat of the country, with black stockings and a black boddice; her head covered with the usual coiffure of orange riband, almost scarlet in color, very broad, with a large bow on the top. But she looked so pale and feeble, that those who were not near enough to see her lovely features, or meet the gaze of her ear- nest, deep blue eyes, which were almost always hid- den beneath their deep eyelid, were little likely to notice laer; and these rude people see beauty so differently from more refined minds! The soldiers let her pass with scarcely a glance; I, on the con- trary, had more color than ever. I could not keep it down. I trembled, yet felt a kind of delight at the danger in which I had placed myselfone is so enthusiastic at seventeen! my eyes sparkled as if I were in joy. I dare not put the orange riband in my hair, I wore black, that looked more sober. We entered the gates of Strasburg carrying a basket on a market-day. Mademoiselle had kept the ring with the lock of hair tied to it ; but when we ware installed in a humble lodging she kne~v not how to send it to M. de Renzi with safety. Listen, mademoiselle, I said. 1 shall go to the Place this evening; monsieur will be there, will he not B Perhaps. But what then? Give me his ring, and let us see what then. She gave it; I vent on the Place dArmes. There was a multitude of panaches* there. You may thinka girl of seventeen years, and I was pretty then, they saidvery pretty. Well, the panaches were a little tiresome, but that was no matter when there was an end in view. But there was one who would not pay me any attentiona hrave young officer, with the air of a lord and a lookab! there was sorroxv in it. I wanted him to notice me; but no, he could not spare me a glance. At last I accidentally caught his eye; he saw the ring hanging loosely on the point of my finger. I knew that I was right in my guess. his heart was beating more quickly then than mine, and thus you see we were in correspondence in a single minute while utter strangers to one another. I xvas seated on a bench, and some minutes after- wards that gallant-looking young officer came and threw himself carelessly on the other end of it. Some of the panaches were looking on ; but no matter, I managed to say the name of the street and number of the house, and the words, Your cousin Minette froin the country, en paysan. So in the evening a fine young countryman * Officers plumes. came in a blouse and working-day dress to inquire for his cousin Mademoiselle Minette. No one in the world would have known himat least, no one but the young countess. Oh, what a meeting was theirs ! Well, it is strange now when I think of them and of myself, what time does, to be sure! I thought that poor young bride would have died on the spot, she lay like a broken lily in his arms, and never shed a tear or spoke a word. But when she regained a little strength she spoke so courageouslyI could not have thought it. I had left them alone; but she came suddenly and called for me. She made me stay there, and then she said henri, this girl is our guardian angel. I tell you in her presence what I know her heart will approve. I will never be your wife in this land of blood. If you will forsake itif you will fly with me to England, come. I will bear all, brave all but never shall our children She buried h6r face in her hand, groaned, and was silent. Now what was to be done Escape appeared almost impossible, and a stay in Strasburg was full of danger. My good fortune, however, did not forsake me in fact, I had a mission to do, and mademoiselle was in some degree right when she said I was sent by her guardian angel ; but cer- tainly the instruments they employed for nie were not always like the good angels. There was always some one or other to take a fancy to menot in the way of my poor Inclina- tion, but some one, you know, xvho just liked bright eyes and pink cheeks, and so 1 xvas tor- mented by a horrible creature whom I hated in my heart. He was an agent of the revolutionpah I always thought of a slaughter-house when he xvas near me. At least, you were not so complaisant with him as with your voiturier, said the Algerian. You would not bribe him with a kiss B I gave him many, nevertheless, the pretty old woman replied. Yes, those kisses were the worst part of my r~~ea token of love without love. Wasnt it hard~ But no matter, I had a purpose to gain ; xvhat I wanted to steal ~vas worth a kiss or two, thungla it is hard to be kissed by those we do not love.~~ To steal! What was that B His passpQrt. He had shown it to me tout en r~gle. lie expected to be sent to Nantes to exe- cute a few thousand murders; it was made out for himself and suite, as he generally had some coin- panions. As soon as I had got possession of this pass- port the young countess and I took a great bundle of clothes and left the town as two washerwomen. M. de Renzi went out for an evening ride and rode farther than he ought in duty to have done. A friend at some distance from the city provided him xvith a change of dress and other disguises. We were soon en route. A British ship-of-war was watching about for fugitives, and after some fearful hazards they got safe to it. The captain received them so well! All was over then ; they would soon be in Eng- land, she ~vould soon be his wife, and he would be an exile. I left them on the deck of the English ship. The pretty old woman wiped a tear from her brilliant eyes. And they did not take you B our Algerian ejaculated, gazing on the little old dame as if he could have verily taken her himself. STORY OF TUE PRETTY OLD WOMAN OF VEVAY. Take me! alt! the exiles ! And the three notes of admiration were suf- ficiently explanatory of her brief reply. Well, you saved them ? Yes, I saved them; I thank God for that. And what did you do with yourself then ? I returned to Vevay. My poor father was glad ; I made his latter days pass more pleasantly: he did not live long. My dear mother was then alone. I had loved her fondly. I lived for her then, and carried on for her my fathers business. We were together some years. I had lovers enoughat least, more than I wanted ; but I never loved any but my Inclination. He was heard of no more, so all I could do was to listen when they spoke of love, and to smile, and refuse to believe; and then they would call me a coquette, but I was not so; and they would leave me, and I would wish they had never come, for it caused them sor- row; and when another came it would be the same all over again. What a pity ! cried her listener. Well, but when my mother died it was differ- ent with me. The heart feels so strange when it has nothing to do! My hands and feet did not move so quickly then. And you never saw your heroine again, nor the hero you saved l I did riot say so. Yes, I saw them; it was in the year 1815. I was standing leaning over the half-door of my houseit was all my own then, a lonely onethe sun was going down behind the mountains at the other side the lake. There, I just see it now, and that golden path over the blue water, and the reddened snow on the mountains. I was looking at it; all this makes one think of times that are gone, where is the use of it? But just then crack comes the postilions whip, sound- ing in the echoes of the hills, crackcrackcrack. Ah, here is more of them! said the neighbors, and every one ran out to look, for a little time be- fore we should have wondered less at the sound of cannon than at the noise of the postilions whip. Every day now we saw travellers dashing along. But the carriage stopped, the postilion spoke to a man in the street, and then crack went the whip again, and it came on to my door. A fine youth was on the outside, and a lady and gentle- man arid some sweet little girls within. The lady I did not recognize; she was pale, and her brow had the marks of care. She had the face of one who had only just put on joy, and could not yet let it be much seen. And a grave, thoughtful man was heside her, who stniled, but like one to whom smiles were uncommon. The lady called out, There she is! it is she! And the youth jumped down and opened the carriagedoor with the air of one who knows he gives pleasure ; and I ran out, and the lady spread out her arms, and cried Minette ! and the voice was the voice I had beard in the garret at Marseilles. And there was the countess weeping in my arms, and laying her t~vo hands on m y shoulders, and pushing me back to look in my face, and then saying I was not old and worn with care like her, and then turning to smile on her husband, who kept pressing his yaungest little boy into my arms and calling all the children to come and embrace the woman who had saved their parents and re- united them. Arid when I looked at her, then I saw it was indeed that lovely and terrified girl grown into a careful, anxious, yet still loving woman. The exiles lot had been theirs, and they still wore the exiles looks. A ud the neighbors all stood tound and wondered, for they had never heard a word of my adventures. Well, said our fine gettleman, after a pause, and I almost thought he wiped a tear from his eye, did your manner of life change then? They did something for you, did they not ? I wanted nothing to be done for me, the little old woman rather proudly answered. They could not bring the dead to life. As to anything else I had more than I wanted. They wished me to go to live with them, for Monsieur de i~enzi was to have his wifes property and to bear her mur- dered fathers title, and all the children were made to beg me to go with them. But when they were gone I was more alone than ever. I had seen her with her husband and her children, and I often said to myself, The xvoman that does not provide a home for her heart is a fool. Certainly I had been robbed of mine but now I began to feel that anything was better than to live solely for oneself. I told yoti that the old widower my father wanted me to marry, had a son a good many years older than myself. He had married, and his wife died, and left two sweet chil- dren, whom I loved fondly. They were almost always with me; they loved me, arid I could not do without them. The father told me he would marry again, and I could not bear to think that those children might have a step-mother who wotild not make them happy. Perhaps this was only a trick of hisI do not know; but when he saw my anxiety he persuaded me it was better to pre- vent the danger and be the step-mother myself. It was for the childrens sake I did it; hut I certainly did not feel so desirous to save them from a cruel step-mother until after I had seen the countess and her happy family. Besides, he declared I had been his first love, and there is a great deal in that, especially when the man is a widower. So, very soon after the exiles had passed through Vevay Oti their rettirn home I married the father of those children, and they are content with their step- mother. And theretherethere ! cried the pretty old woman, tugging a great wicker-basket from under the seat, there is my house, and there are the children looking for me ! Stop, stop, conduc- teur! this is Vevay. What nonsense to write up on that post The road forltaly! Bon jour, mes amis! bon jour! A.h, I forgot to tell you in my story that the revoltitionists guillotined their friend Monsietir Emile. Bon jour! hon jour ! 40 THE ECRIVAIN PtTBLh From Frasers Magazine. THE ~ECRIVAIN PUBLIC. A SKETCH FROM PARISIAN LIFE. CHAPT]IR 1.A MISTREsS. Wuo has resided in Paris for any length of time without becoming acquainted, at least by sight, with some of those humble temples of literature which abound in that city, resembling cobblers stalls, kcpt by the very poorest of the brethren of the quill, who announce their calling to the world by the somewhat magnioquent title, inscribed on their little bricks, of l~crivains Publics ! How many a tale of love in humble life, how many an intrigue, how many a reputation, lie at the mercy of these humble and busily employed agents of illit- erate Paris! They are said to be a class of men who, though steeped to the lips in poverty, invari- ably display the most scrupulous integrity and dis- cretion towards their employers; and, according to general report, the confessionals of St. Roch or Notre Dame de Lorette are .not more sacred than the secrets confided to the penmanship of these miserable scribes. Their boutiques are usually found in retired parts of the tcwn, where a spot of waste ground, or a friendly gable of a house, affords space for their erection, without the awkwardness of a demand for rent. A description of this class of the sons of literature, so totally unknown to fame, would be worthy the pen of the Fielding of former days, or the Charles Dickens of our own. But, as we, alas! have no skill in this admirable species of por- traiture, we propose to lay before the reader a romance of modern Paris, an ower true tale, in which one of these worthy public ?itt& ateurs en- acted a not undistinguished part, and one which amply bears out the high character for integrity and honor ascribed to the brotherhood The reader must accompany us to a small apart- ment on a second floor, in a retired, quiet street, situated in the most aristocratic quarter of Paris, ~he Fanbourg St. Germain. Though small, the rooms were neat in the extreme; and while nothing that could properly be called luxury was visible, except one of Erards grand pianos may be thus denominated, the presence of a presiding taste was everywhere apparent, and threw a certain air of unpretending elegance over the modest sojourn. A young lady was seated near the window busi- ly employed at her embroidery-frame. Her eyes were steadily and earnestly bent upon her work; occasionally she raised her long dark eye-lashes to the timepiece which stood on the mantel-shelf, the hands of which seemed to move too rapidly for her wishes. 11cr dress was simple and becoming, but had it been directly otherwise, no style of dress could conceal the captivating beauty of her form and features. The former was exactly of that char- acter which a painter would most prize as a model of feminine grace and elegant proportions; and her countenance, beaming with intelligence and feeling, was a living portrait of some of those immortal creations with which the pencil of RafYaelle has enchanted the world. At length she raised her head, and regarded the clock with an air of saiisfaction. Her work was completed. She rose and rang the hell. An old servant appeared. Marian, said her mistress, in a tone which showed her satisfaction, it is finished. Look! What do you think of it ~ Marian, having put on her spectacles with the CXXV. LIVING AGE. VOL. XI. 3 air of a grand judge, proceeded to examine the work. Ah, said she, how beautiful! What colors! Only let me dispose of it, and I 11 get you a fail better price than you were paid for the last. You know very well, replied her mistress, that it is already sold to the same house, and the price agreed upon. The Jews ! muttered Marian; Nay. Marian, said her mistress, you must not forget that these good people have given me constant employment, and so saved us much trouble. Ah! returned the servant, in a tone of impa- tience, you could have done without them if you would but have spoken one word. A look of some severity from her mistress cut short the further loquacity of Marian, who with some embarrassment added, I meant, by your teaching the piano, dame! at ten francs a lesson ! You know it displeased M. Alfred. That is true enough; and after all I like this better than your teachiogobliged to be abroad in all sorts of weather, and coming home sometimes so harassed and fatigued. At present you never go out at all, except when M. De Monville gives you his arm, and that is not too often. Another look from her mistress again arrested the garrulity of the old servant, which, be it ob- served, was seldom without a slight infusion of malice. While she had been speaking, the former detached her work from the frame, and carefully rolling it up. Here, said she, go with this at once before M. Alfred arrives; it is now near his hour. Put this frame also out of the way that he may not see it. Take care, take care, ~aid the old woman you know how he hates mystery. Alas! Heaven knows how it pains me to con- ceal anything from him. But this She made a sign. and Marian took the things and went out, leaving her mistress plunged in melancholy reflec- tion; for this brief conversation had brought her situationthe present and the futuresadly and painfully before her. Louisa Chatenay was but three years old when she experiencdd the loss, always deplorable, of her mother. Her father, a highly learned and esteemed professor in a provincial town, had spared neithcr care nor cost on her education; and his best and most distinguished pupil was his darling Louisa. To a singular aptitude for all kinds of elegant literature, he saw that she added a decided taste fot music. Instructors were procured, and her progres~. was even more rapid in this most fascinating of th~ sciences than in the other branches of her educa- tion, us though there existed some hidden sympathy between the enchanting art and the soul of the fair musician, now become a charming girl of sixteen. Her playing seemed less execution than inspiration; and though unequal to the tremendous crashes of the modern tornado school, which makes one fecl~ even for the unfortunate instrument, her facile com prehension of the great masters appeared rather divination than study. Her voice, too, was mag- nificent, a rich mezzo soprano, which thrilled in th~ solemn strains of the divine Pergol~se, or the touch- ing melodies of the too-early-lost Bellini, (for her exalted admiration of the master-spirits of the times gone by did not render her insensible to the beauties of the modernsso ignorant was Louisa of the rules 41 42 THE ~ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.~ laid down by modern criticism.) At this period Louisa was, both in mind and person, everything that the fondest father could desire; and though she, perhaps, enjoyed a greater share of liberty than a mothers anxious vigilance would have allowed, her natural prudence and a sensitive delicacy of character supplied the want of experience. Among the more intimate friends of her father was a family named Preville; the children had been infant playfellows, and their friendship afterwards continued without interruption. During the age of childhood a marriage had even been talked of between the little Louisa and the elder boy, Julian Preville; and although no mention had been made of this project of late years, the parents on both sides, particularly the father of Louisa, looked for- ward to it as an event which, though not certain, might be regarded as far from improbable. The boy, who was some two or three years elder than Louisa, was, perhaps, even more sanguine in his hopes. These hopes, however, if he really entertained them, were neither shared nor thought of by Louisa. Whether it was that the hour of her hearts awak- ening had not yet come, or from whatever other cause, she continued to regard Julian with the kindness due to the friend of her childhood, but without a ray of warmer feeling; and her life glided on peacefully and tranquilly until her eigh- teenth year. She was now struck with a dreadful calamitythe death of her father. He died suddenly, leaving no fortune. Louisa would have been nearly a beggar, but for a trifling income derived from her mother. Js4ian Preville, now engaged in commercial pursuits, was absent at the time; his family learning the extent of Louisa~s poverty, prudently evinced no desire to renew the recollection of the formerly projected marriage; and with the advice of her friends she determined upon proceeding to Paris, where she had an old relative, the only one left her in the world, but the amount of whose assistance on her arrival was, counselling her to employ the little money she had remaining in perfecting her talents, and to receive lessons before commencing to give them. Louisa, however, soon succeeded in procuring a few pupils, and her talents were already securing for the friendless girl a modest independence, when, at the residence of a family of ranl~ in which she gave lessons in music, she met M. Alfred de Mon- vdlean event which materially affected the color of her future life. Without entering into details of the growth of their aequaintance, it is only neces- sary here to state, that, struck by her uncommon beauty, lie became an assiduous and devoted ad- mirer, and that the passion thus commenced was daily augmented by a further knowledge of her mind and character. He was also a passionate lover of music, and this led to a dangerous intimacy between them. His assiduities and devotedness made an impression upon her heart; and, not unnecessarily to prolong our narrative, Louisa for the first time fit the lossthe irreparable loss of a mother. Six months had passed; and although the affec- tion of Alfred seemed constantly to increase, during his absence a corroding sentiment of sorrow and remorse would frequently intrude. Her sole happi- ness rested upon the continuance of his love, and ~he knew that his family were unceasingly urging 1dm to a union with a young lady of rank and for- tune. Louisa had other motives for uneasinessin the character of her lover himself. With a ten- derness and depth of affection, almost without example, mixed with great nobleness of mind, he displayed some defects which she could not regard without inquietude. Of these, jealousy and a prone- ness to suspicion were the principal. On this account she had long since given up her music-les- sons, for he had, with some justice, objections to a profession which led her so much into public with- out adequate protection. But in sacrificing this source of income, Louisa would accept of nothing in return from her lover, giving him to understand that the small succession left her at the death of her father was sufficient for her wants. We have seen how the deficiency was supplied. The servant had not left the house many minutes, when Louisa was roused from her reverie by the ringing of the bell. Marian went in time, men- tally exclaimed she, as she hastened to open the door. M. de Monville entered. He was a young man of dark complexion, tall and well-made, apparently about thirty years of age. His manner and appear- ance bore that unmistakable impress of high life which is, perhaps, never to be imitated with success. Habits of serious study had imprinted something of precocious gravity upon his features; aiid though naturally kind and indulgent, the expression of his dark and piercing eye denoted the suspicious, or, at least, highly impressionable disposition to which we have already alluded, and which is iiot altogether unfrequent with those who have passed more of their time in company with books than with the world. De Monville looked round on entering, and inquired for Marian. I have just sent her out, said Louisa, without further explanation. I am glad we are alone, rejoined Alfred. He entered the little saloon, and taking both the hands of Louisa in his own, he imprinted a tender kiss on her forehead. There was something in his man- ner which seemed to indicate that he had something of importance to communicate; and in the course of a long and interesting conversation between the lovers, which we generously spare the reader, he acquainted her that the constant importunities of his mother and friends oa the subject of his marriage had at length forced him to come to a deter- mination. Well ? said Louisa, turning rather pale. Well, continued he, I have chosen a wife. I have not sought her among those who, gifted with birth and fortune, conceive that they can dispense with the amiable virtues and acquirements which to my mind constitute the real ormiaments of life. I have found one, kind, modest, gifted, and loving one whose heart has made sacrifices for me, which a life of devotedness only can repay. Louisa, will you accept my hand and name? Is it necessary to state the reply of Louisa? The noble and generous offer which comprised in her eyes not only happiness, but the establishment of honor and reputation, was received with tears of love arid gratitude. A long conversation followed, chiefly upon their future arrangements; in the course of which Alfred entreated her to give him a small gold ring which Louisas mother had tied round her neck with her dying blessing, praying heaven that it might be as a talisman to shield her child from evil. This gift Louisa had guarded with religious love and rever- ence. Alfred had before frequently solicited it in vain. He now claimed it in the right of her future husband. Louisa promised that it should be her wedding- THE ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.~ gift to him. Tie was fain to be satisfied with this promise, for before he could reply to it the entrance of Marian put a stop to their further discourse. 1lio old servant was evideutly in a very bad humor. She made signs to her mistress that she had not found the shopkeeper at home, and that she had brought back the embroidery unsold. Alfred perceived some of this dumb show, and inquired what it meant. Nothing, said Louisa, with a smile. Always mysterious! returned Alfred, taking his hat, half angrily. No, said Louisa, arresting his ill-humor with a kiss. Alfred was satisfiedor nearly so, and tenderly took his leave. CHAPTER 11.OBSTAcLEs. DURING the hours which the lovers were passing so happily together, a scene was proceeding in a neighboring street at the H6tel de Monville, Rue de Grenelle, the d6nouemeni of which, if realized, promised effectually to interfere with their plans. The mother of Alfred was at that time receiving the formalnay, almost solemn visit of the Countess de Chateauneiif, a lady immensely rich, of the ancient noblesse, and influentially connected with the high- est personages of the court. The countess had an only daughter, and hence her present visit to Madame de Monville. The negotiations had been going on for some time; the present interview was long, and the ladies, in separating, had lost some- thing of the stiff and ceremonious dignity which marked their meeting. The two mothers had agreed to the marriage of Alfred and Mdlle. de Cha- teauneuf. Madame de Chateauneuf had scarcely quitted the dvawing-room, attended by her hostess, at one door, when a persona~e of some consequence in our story entered by another. This was a lady, who had probably reached her twenty-sixth year, but whose features still retained the charm and freshness of youth. The expression of her countenance was replete with winning modesty and in harmony with all her movements, which were marked by serene gentleness and grace. The beauty of Madame Val- mont was not of that description which captivates at first sight, but it stole upon the heart, and left an indelible impression. A slightly brown complexion, as if colored tinder the sunny skies of Italy, was contrasted by her deep blue eyes and fair hair peculiarities which not unfrequently mark an organ- ization uniting two opposite natures, the deep pas- sions of the South with the voluptuous languor of the East. This charming person, notwithstanding all her external advantages, was far from happy. Married by her parents at an early age to M. Val- mont, a man more than double her years, she had never known the felicity of mutual affection, nor even the tranquil comforts of ordinary wedded life. Her husband was a man without either vices or virtues properly so called. His mind was too much absorbed in commercial or other speculations to appreciate or even to think of his wife. Any novel mercantile scheme, or extraordinary invention, particularly if there appeared anything very impracticable about them, was certain to find in M. Valmont an Hetive and zealous patron. But the numerous undertakings he had taken up had never but one resultfailure. At last, nearly, ruined, but still as sanguine as ever, he embarkea the residue of a once large fortune in a miscella- neous cargo, with which he freighted a vessel for 43 the antipodes. A newly invented soap, and s me thousand cases of eau de Cologne, formed a large portion of his cargo, upon the sale of which he cal- culated upon realizing at least 500 per cent. in A us- tralia, and thus being enabled to reconstruct his shattered fortunes. To direct so important an op- eration he had himself embarked for New South Wales, leaving Madame Valmont behind him in France, in possession of so much of her fortune as he had been by law unable to touch. The mother of Alfred, who was a distant rela- tive and had always been much attached to Mad- ame Valmont, inviled her to take up her abode in her h6tel during her temporary widowhood. n offer which Madame Valinont gratefully accepted, as affording her not only a home and society, but the kind of protection which is necessary to a young woman in a position of some difficulty as well as delicacy. Matilda Valmont had now been several months a member of the family, during which time her amia- ble character had ingratiated her into the most inti mate confidence of Madame de Mouville. and Alfred. Indeed, had the heart of the latter not been entirely absorbed by his passion for Louisa, he might have found himself in dangerous proximity with his beautiful cousin. Madame Valmont stood for a few moments after entering the room plunged in deep thought; but her countenance brightened on the re~utrance of Madame de Monville, who returned accompanied by another friend of the familya M. St. George. This gentleman appeared some forty years old. He had quitted the army to become partner in a Paris banking-house, of which one of his friends was at the head, and without remarkable talents of any kind, M. St. George before long found himself master of a considerable fortune, the acquirement of which, after the manner of most successful adventurers, he at- tributed solely to his own excessive cleverness. Without possessing the manners, and still less the feelings, of a gentlemanfor the French army, whatever be its other merits, is decidedly the worst school in the world for that species of knowledge his military habits had given him a certain frank- ness, which found favor in many of the aristocratic saloons of the Faubourg St. Germain; and, perfect- ly alive to the advantages of such a connection, the ex-captain assiduously cultivated the good graces of the noble owners. In this he succeeded so well, particularly where the reigning powers happened to be vested in time hands of elderly ladies, that M. St. George was in certain families of distinction the chosen counsellor, friend, and agent in all cases of difficulty. He had been apparently sent for on the present occasion by Madame de Monville to be con- sulted upon some affair of importance, for the old lady told Matilda that she had to speak to him on particular business. You wish to be alone? I will leave you, said Matilda, rising. Order the carriage, my dear, and drive to the Champs Elys6es. The day is beautiful, and it will do you good. You are looking a little pale.. Madame de Monville, as she spoke, pressed tM. hands of Matilda affectionately. By the way, she added, you received letters with news of M.. Valmont last night; I have not seen you since. I hope it was satisfactoryhe is well B Quite, returned Madame Valmont with a. slight alteration of voice quite well. iflan his, dear madam, for the interest you take in all that concerns me. Perfectly satisfactory. 44 THE ECRIVAIN PUBL1C.~ With an amicable salutation to St. George, Ma- The time he passed at home would have flown tilda retired to her apartment. heavily indeed had it not been that he had there one She had no sooner quitted the room, than Mad- friend, his kind cousin Madame Yalmont, to whom ame de Monville acquainted her confidant that she he conid confide all his annoyances, all his hopes; had concluded the arrangements for the marriage of his love for his Lc~uisa, their intended unionall Mademoiselle de Ch~teauneuf and her son. St. was confided to her friendly ear. She used to George was proceeding to congratulate her upon question him on the beauty and accomplishments of this splendid alliance, when she informed him that his future wife, and charmed him by listening to his she had discovered the existence of a serious ob- delighted descriptions until she appeared nearly as stacle; one which, she feared, from the character much in love with her as Alfred himself. of Alfred would be almost insurmountable. But before these anticipations could be realized, This obstacle was her sons passion for Louisa, a grand obstacle had to be removedthe terrible with which Madame de Monville appeared ac- marriage with Mademoiselle de Chateauneuf, which quainted. his mother had so near at heart. The negotiations St. George treated it lightly, as an attachment were silently proceediiig, and the day next but one natural at the age of Alfred, but which he had too was fixed upon for the formal introduction of the much good sense to perniit to stand, in the way of two families at a grand dinner, given by Madame an advantageous marriage. He would see the de Monville. Alfred owned Ins perplexity to his person in question himselfa milliner a dan- cousin. The union was impossible, yet he shrank seuse? from acquainting his mother with his refusal, Neither, said Madame de Monville. I which he knew would so seriously grieve her. hear she is of honest parents, and has received a dis- There is a good angel who watches over true tinguished education. Of course, a creature with- love, smilingly observed Madame Yalmont. out morals. Who knows, perhaps an objection may come St. George readily assented to this conclusion, from the other side? Hope ! I will explain matters frankly to her, con- The day following Alfred was greatly surprised tinued he. Persons of this class dont want dis- to learn from his mother that she had received an cer~inent. Alfred is rich, the thing must be done excuse from Madame de Chateauneuf, who could handsomely. A present of 500, perhaps much not dine with them as had been arranged. She less, will remove every difficulty. Make yourself was suddenly about to quit Paris with her daugh- perfectly easy. I 11 answer for settling the affair. ter for a short time. No further explanation Where does she live? was given, but the chagrin and disappointment In the Rue St. Romain, near this. visible in her countenance showed that something I 11 see her at once, said St. George, rising had taken place to affect the threatened matrimo- and taking his hat. nial project. Madame de Monville left the room to Madame de Monville, however, advised him first write a note, requesting to see M. St. George. to see her son on the subject; as, if he were really My dear cousin, said Alfred to Madanie Yal- so attached to his mistress as represented to her, he mont, joyously, this looks like a rupture. Is it would be disposed to resent any interference of one? which she might complain to him, and as in that I hope so, returned Matilda. case she would, doubtless, represent everything that The good angel that watches over true love was said so as to suit her own views, it would be is then yourself? better to apply to her only as a last resort, should Silence! said Matilda, silence ! Alfred be inflexible. For herself, Madame de Mon- But how has it occurred? Tell me, dear ville confessed her reluctance to enter upon the cousin, that I may thank youthat I may subject with her son, knowing the determinadon Hush ! interrupted M~ dame Yalmout, in a with which he adhered to any resolution once taken, low voice. What I have done is nothing. I saw and douhting her own firmness, from knowing the you unhappy, and this is my sole excuse. Go, influence he had over her mind, think only now of your Louisa. Marry her, as she St. George at once set about the task he had is worthy of your heart. Adieu! in a short thee thus undertaken, for, be it observed, lie was never your mother will yield to your prayers and forgive so much at home as when meddling with the affairs you. Farewell ! of others. His interference, as might be anticipat- In order to keep aloof from the little family dis- ed, was very ill received by the young man. St. cussions which were now likely to occur, Matilda George, however, had no superfluous delicacy to be accepted an invitation to pass a few days with a wounded, and returned to the charge with such friend in the vicinity of Paris. oldness and pertinacity that, after several warm Nothing further was said of the marriage with discussions, a serious quarrel was nearly occurring Mademoiselle de Chateauneuf. Yet Alfred could between them in consequence of his speaking of not obtain the consent of his mother to his union tousa in a tone which might be expected from his with Louisa. When she appeared disposed to principles, but which M. de Monville warmly re- yield, St. George, who seemed to consider that his ~nted. St. George, however, wisely considered credit as a man of business would be compromised that, though an ally of the mother, it was no part were this marriage to take place, reproached her of his mission to fight a duel with the son; he, with weakness. At length, however, she did yield therefore, resolved to change his tactics and appeal, a reluctant assent; but on eonditioii that she should he originally intended, to Louisa herself. not be asked to see her daughter-in-law. With In the mean time Alfred was wearied and annoyed this De Monville was fain to be content for the by these discussiops, and still more by the change present, relying tipon the good offices of his gentle of manner of his mother, to whom he was affec- cousin, and upon that great softener of all asperities tionately attached, and who, while she forebore to Time, for a reconciliation at some future period. urge him on the subject of Mademoiselle de Cha- Alfred possessed in his own right a small proper- beauneuf, omitted no occasion of showing how ear- ty, delightfully situated about twenty leagues from nestly she desired his marriage with that lady. Paris. It was arranged that the marriage should THE CC ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.~~ 45 take place there, in order to avoid all unnecessary publicity. As the chateau had not been inhabited for some years, it was requisite to put it into a state fit to receive its new mistress; and for this purpose Alfred determined to proceed thither to su- perintend in person the alterations and repairs. He was to be absent a week, and to return t~vo days previous to the celebration of the marriage. It was the first separation of the lovers, and, brief as it was to be, they parted with ominous griefmany tears on one side, deep sadness on both. M. St. George resolved to take advantage of his absence and make a last effort to put a stop to the marriage. He accordingly saw Louisa two or three times. On the return of Alfred to town he descended at his mothers h6tel previous to hastening to Louisa. The concierge handed him a letterit was anony- mous! What this letter contained will be seen in the following pages. CHAPTER 111.THE LETTEa. THE eight long days of absence had expired. Louisa was anxiously expecting De Monville when she was startled by a violent ringing at the bell. T is he ! cried Louisa, joyously flying to- wards the door, t is he ! De Monville entered. Louisas joy was short-lived. He was no longer the same being. His face was deadly pale, and she could only gaze on him in silence. Without a word, he entered and closed the door behind him. With hasty strides he entered the inner room. She followed him. His penetrating glance seemed to dive into the deepest recesses of her heart. One of his hands, placed under his cloak, was agitated by a convul- sive motion; with the other he seized Louisas arm and forced her to remain near him. His look, his silence, were dreadful. Heavens ! cried she, what is the matter l You terrify me Be seated, returned he. She sat down at once, awed by his tone and ges- ture. De Monville endeavored to surmount the emo- tion he was laboring under. He remained silent for a few seconds, as if enjoying the increasing agitation of Louisa, and then, without taking his eyes from her face, he exclaimed And so you have deceived me The poor girl drew back in stupor. It was now her turn to gaze in silence, to feel her words expire on her lips. IDe Monville, who still held her arm, shook her roughly, and, in accents of fury, ex- claimed Answer, answer me, I say. But it was in vain he tried to awaken her from the horrid trance. She did not reply, for the thought that he could believe her guilty had never entered her mind. All her fears were realized; the recollection of the intrigues, the man~uvres she had so dreaded, assailed her at once. The horrible suspicion darted across her mind that Alfred no lont~er loved herthat, vanquished by the importu- nities of his family, he sought but a pretext to break off his engagements with her. An abyss had opened under her feet, and she had sunk into it. IDe Monville, astonished at his easy triumph, again endeavored to restrain his feelings. I will he calm, said he. Listen to me. This interview is most probably our last. If you cannot justify yourself it will lead to an eternal separation. But I will not judge without hearing you. If you have deceived me, Louisa, you are very guilty, for I had placed boundless confidence in you. I should have blushed to set a spy over your actions. I loved you, and would have sacri-. ficed all for youfamily, friends, all. She moved; she understood at last that he ac- cused her of perfidy, of infamy. A flush of indig- nation covered her face and forehead, and when Alfreds glance again demanded an answer, it was met by a look of pride, but with the calmness of death. A fresh pause ensued. Alfred continued. Speak candidly Louisa. Am I the only man who has entered this apartment since my de- parture l Ah! is that all ! said she, coldly. Yes, a friend of yoursM St. George. St. George ! exclaimed Alfred, surprised. Yes; he endeavored by his counsels and per- suasions to prepare me for the meeting of to-day. He shall explain his conduct. But I do not mean him; you do not mention another, a young man, whose mysterious visits have been made known to me. Indeed ! said Louisa, recollecting a circtini- stance she had forgotten. What have you been told1 - What have I been told l cried De Monville, crumpling in his rage a paper he had just drawn from his breast. I have been told that the night before last a young man, muffled up in a cloak, se- cretly visited you, introduced by your servant; that he remained with you two hours; that he had be- fore paid you similar visits, though you never spoke to me respecting him, or mentioned his name; in a word, that he knew you before I did, that he loved you, that you were to have been his wife. Is it true l Must I name him l It is needless, said Louisa, coldly and haught- ily. Who gave you these particulars l This letter, said Alfred. Can you deny its contents l By whom is it written l It has no signature; but that is of no conse- quence if its contents be true. An anonymous letter! replied Louisa, with a contemptuous smile. You believe an anonymous letter! A dastardly denunciation is stronger in your mind than all the proofs I have given you of my affection! You esteem me so highly that the first slanderer who chooses to blacken me in your eyes is believe4 without even being obliged to ver- ify his calumny by his name! Ah! what will he our future life l Instead of accusing others defend yourself. If the author of this letter is a calumniator, I II dis- cover him; and, by Heaven! I 11 punish him. But if he have only opened my eyes to your false- hoodif he prove me to be the victim of your per- fidy, I am his debtor for more than life. Listen, and tell me which of these titles lie deserves. Then unfolding the paper, he read, in a voice nearly stifled by agitation, as follows Sir,A person who takes an interest in your honor deems it a duty to assume the veil of an anonymous friend to acquaint you with the charac- ter of the woman who is soon to receive your name. I know not if you be the first in her affections, but you are not the first who was to have led her to the altar. A young man, named Preville, whom she 46 THE ~ ECRIVAIN PtTBLIC. has known from her childhood, was to have married her; but this match was far from being so advanta- geous as that offered her by your love. She has, therefore, broken off with him, although she still continues to receive his visits. As, however, they must now separate, she saw him the evening before last to bid him adieu. Your absence from Paris favored this rendezvous, which lasted for two hours. He then quitted her, as he had arrived, taking the utmost precaution to avoid discovery. Can it be possible? exclaimed Louisa. What a web of falsehood! M. Preville Ah! cried De Monville, you acknowledge he has been hereV Yes ! but hear me in your turn.~~ No! I have heard enoughtoo much, said De Monville, in a voice of mingled fury and despair. Liirten to me Alfred. Do not accuse me with- out allowing me to answer. I am innocent. My only error is to have made a secret of his visits. I did so partly because I dreaded your jealous suspi- cions, but chiefly because I held them of so little consequence as not to be worth remembering or naming. Yes, it is true that, almost in childhood, our families being neighbors and friends, in Prov- ence, a union was talked of between us. But I never entertained a feeling towards him beyond the coldest indifference; and, grown up, the project, if ever really contemplated, was no longer thought of. Since I have been in Paris, business has two or three times led M. Preville to town, and he never failed to bring me tidings of my old friends. The day before yesterday he again returned, and it is true that he called in the evening, and true that he remained some time, for I had much to tell. I con- cealed nothing, neither my love for you, nor your generous conduct, nor our approaching union. As to the precautions he is said to have used, I know nothing of them. His visit was of no importance; I did not expect it, and if I did not mention it, it was because it had escaped my memory. De Monvilles suspicions were shaken by this simple recital. As she spoke he became less agi- tated and began to feel ashamed of his credulity. Half convinced of his error, he was ready to fall down at her feet and supplicate the pardon of the woman he adored, when his eye fell upon the latter Dart of the letter, which he had not read. He hesi- tated and determined to make a last trial. Pardon me, dearest, said he, if I have sus- pected you unjustly. The excess of my love ren- ders me distrustful. Besides, the secrets you con- fess to have concealed from me must serve to excuse my firsts transports. Can you forgive mel She placed one of her hands on her heart, and offered him the other. He covered it with kisses. Ah! said she, Alfred, how you have grieved me! I did not think it possible to suffer so much and live. And now, dearest, said De Monville, as a pledge of our reconciliation, give me that ring you have so often refused meyour mothers ring. The more your heart values the gift, the dearer will the sacrifice be to me. She replied, smiling, Why this new desire What value can it have in your eyes? Does it not contain my Louisas hair, cut from her forehead when she was a child1 Do not refuse me. Give it me, I conjure you! I know where you keep it; in a small box in your secretary. 3ive me the key! His looks were tender and caressing, but his voice trembled with a strange emotion. Louisa remarked it. Ah! said she, is it thus you sue for par- don? I will have it! cried De Monville, giving vent to the passion he had hitherto suppressed with a struggle; I 11 take it by force! Still suspicious! Still mysterious! Well, sir, I will explain all. If I have refus& till now to allow you to open my secretary, it is because it contains papers which would have let you see that, unable to live on my small income, as you imagined, I have supported myself on the produce of my labor. I did not acquaint you with this, because I was too proud to receive your gifts. Was it a crime? Dc Monville heard her; he wished to believe what she said; but, like a fatal poison, the letter burned his hands. He resumed, with a bitter smile, And thus you have again deceived me? He snatched the key from her hand. Stupified at his violence, she sunk half fainting in a chair. De Monville opened the secretary, searched seized the boxopened itthe ring was gone! Ab! cried he, casting on her a look of con- centrated fury, I knew it! At these words Louisa rose, ran to the secretary, and searched in vain for her ring. My ring! she exclaimed. Where is it? Where is my ring? Gone! Stolen, stolen! Yes, stolen, said Alfred. Then taking her rudely by the arm he read aloud from the letter, The proof that all ties are not broken off be- tween this woman and her former lovera proof that they still love each otheris, that she made him a present of a ring, a family ring, given her by her mother, enclosing some of her own hair. Now, cried Dc Monville, can you deny it? You refused to give me the ring, you refused to give me the key. Falsehood upon falsehood, infa- my upon infamy! In a frantic voice she called her servant, My ring, Marian! where is my ring? What have you done with my ring? You know Marian is not here, said Dc Mon- ville, with a smile of scornful bitterness. Fare- well, madam; tell your lover he can return. Louisa had fallen senseless on the ground. De Monville cast a last look at her as she lay, pale and motionless. He took a few steps towards her; but indignation arrested this movement of returning tenderness. He threw a purse of gold upon the table and dis- appeared. CHAPTER Iv.THE ECRIVAIN PtTBLIc EIGHTEEN months after the terrible scene we have just narrated, we find Dc Monville seated in his study in the Rue de Grenelle. He had grown pale and much thinner, and appeared several years older than at that period. He was married. Madame, Valmont, his cousin, of whose estimable qualities. we have before spoken, had become his wife. A few words are necessary to explain this change in the situation of the two relatives towards each other. After De Monvilles rupture with Louisa a vio THE ~ECRIVATN PtT13LIC.~ lent fever had for some time endangered his life. lie must have died had it not been for the tender and unremitting care of his mother and his gentle cousin. And on his recovery, though broken in spirit, gratitude and friendship bound him to exist- ence, for their sakes more than for his own. But the deepest melancholy succeded the exhaustion of his fever. He allowed himself to be transported to the. country, agreeably to the advice of his physi- cians, who hoped that a purer air would restore his sunken energies, and a change of objects aid in ob- literating the impressions of the past. His mother and Madame Yalmont accompanied him to a fine old ch& teau they possessed down in Touraine. They had some intention of getting M. St. George to bear them company; but though Alfred morally convinced that he had written the anonymous letter, was grateful to him for having opened his eyes, still he felt his presence oppres- sively painful. Whatever recalled the perfidy of her he had loved excited in his mind the most uncon- trollable emotions. He even cherished a hope that she would write to him and justify herself. But he never heard of her since the moment of their part- ing. Ashamed of his weakness, he never suffered himself to breathe her name, and those around him were of course silent on the subject. It was in this state he left town, concealing from all the pas- sion which was preying on his peacetoo deeply wronged to think of a reconciliation, and yet too loving to seek consolation by imparting the source of his distress. But each hnur that passes sheds a drop of balm on the most poignant of our griefs. Every new day extirpates one by one the thorns which have pierced the heart. It is true the first months of De Monvilles sojourn in the country gave no visi- ble sign of improvement in his health. In vain for him Nature spread forth her beauty and luxuriance; the sunny days, the balmy nights of summer equally weighed down his sinking frame. But by little and little the warmth of summer declines, autumn appears with her empurpled shades and her urn of dew, and with its coming gloom the in- valid felt his grief diminish and his health improve. The sadness of the season suited the melancholy tone of his mind, and he at length relieved his suffer- ings by imparting them. He was now accompanied in his rambles by his mother and his cousin, and each day saw his inti- macy with the latter increase. It was natural that she who had been the confidant of his hopes should be the first to console him. To her alone did he venture to speak of the lost Louisa. In their long walks, now become a daily custom, in the long evenings passed at the fireside, she listened to his wrongs, to his sufferings. She wept for the sor- rows he had undergone, and he found his unhappy love half consoled by the tender sympathy of friendship. She was at length induced to acquaint him with a secret which she had until then concealed, lest she might have increased his afflictions by her own. She had been unwilling to deprive him of a single consolation by letting him know that she herself was unhaj~py. Her husband, M. Yalmont, was dead. This sad news had reached her but a short time before Alfred had found himself so cruelly betrayed. IDe Monville was struck with admiration at the inexhaustible fund of kindness which made his cousin ever ready to sacrifice herself for others. This treasure of a heart was now at liberty. Their 47 conversations henceforward gradually became long- er and more frequent, and although they lost nothing of their charming familiarity, they often became timid and embarrassed on both sides. The name of Louisa was less frequently pronounced, and one evening, Alfred, holding Madame Yalmonts hands in his, and fixing oxi her a tender inquiring glance, asked her if she would complete her work and reconcile him entirely to existence. We have both suffered, said he. You, united to a man who could not appreciate yoi.tr worth, I from a fatal, misplaced passion. We are now both free; you from a chain which was forced upon you, I from a deliriuma dream! We both require the repose of a sincere, tranquil affection.. Will you be mine? She did not then reply: but two months after- wards theif marriage was celebrated at the chflteau. The year following their union was passed in the country. The death of the mother of Alfred, which took place during that period, seemed to in- crease their affection for each other. They returned to town about the beginning of the winter. De Monville resumed his avocations, but sought in study, rather than in the enjoyments of wealth and luxury, a diversion to the melancholy which still hung over him, and which now seemed to have become a part of his character. During their long absence, his friend M. St. George had contracted other intimacies and visited him but sel- dom, and when he did, carefully abstained, by the advice of Madame de Monville, from all allusion to the past. In addition to his usual occupations, Alfred had his family papers to regulate, to examine title-deeds, and copy a number of letters and other papers. He had requested a friend to recomtnend him a person to whom he could intrust this copying, and this brings us to the point of time described at the opening of the present chapter. Alfred, as we have said, was seated in his study. Madame de Monville opened the door and told him the person recommended as a copyist was come. Will you see him now, said she, or shall I desire him to wait ? De Monville wished him to be shown in imme- diately. Will you allow me, my dear, said his wife, to remain in the room? Certainly, if you desire it. But as we have to speak of papers, business, ciphers, our conversation will be the reverse of amusing. Why do you wish to stay l I have but spoken a few words to your copyist, and, if I do not greatly mistake the person, he is a most diverting original. Oh, remain, then, by all means He ordered him to be shown in. An old grey-headed man presented himself on the door being opened, and his dehist seemed fully to justify the ladys anticipations. He was attired in a very old surtout, which, perhaps, had origin- ally been black, but, from exposure to wind and weather, had become a kind of ambiguous brown~ It was buttoned to the topmost button, as if to disguise the absence of a waistcoat; his trousers, of the coarsest material, were so short, as to leave a considerable distance between their nether ex- tremities and his shoes, or rather sallots, for this part of his costume was made not of leather but of wood, such as are worn by the French peasantry and individuals of the very poorest class in Paris. With all these indubitable marks of extreme pov TIlE ECRIVAIN ~ erty, there was a something in his aspect which created a liking, and even commanded respect. Though somewhat bent by age, he was tall and uncouthly massive of frame, and the broad German cast of his plain features bore an impress of ex- treme simplicity and a kindliness of heart which not all the marks of pinching want and privation, too visible in every lineament, could change or conceal. As the door was opened, this strange-looking figure stopped at the threshold to make an awk- ward, over-polite bow; a manifestation of respect which he thrice repeated, advancing a step at each salutation, with a solemnity so ludicrous that Mon- sieur and Madame de Monville had considerable difficulty in restraining a burst of laughter. When the poor man had concluded this ceremony, he ~aiscd his eyes and cast a bashful, humble look around thc room. Suddenly his features assumed an expression of extreme surprise, and he remained with his month open, gaziug bewilderedly upon De Monville, who, to the great astonishment of his wife, exclaimed in a tone of animation unusual with him What! my old friend, Reinsberg ? M. de Monville, said the old man, how kind of you to remember me! not to forget the professor who taught you the rudiments of an art now despised, and of which I am, I fear, the last representative ! De Monville here introduced the old man in form to his wife, as having been professor of writing at the College Charlemagne when he was a pupil. The cordiality of his reception put the old man quite at his ease. It was very different, said he, at the time I gave you your lessons, now more than eighteen years ago. I beg pardon, madam, if I speak so freely before you, but I grow young when I think of bygone times. Do not, I entreat, pay attention to my wardrobe. I have brushed and cleaned these poor habiliments as well as possible; but they are very, very old, and miserable. I was ashamed to knock when I saw this rich h6tel; and probably if you had not accidentally been here, your servants would not have admitted me, but turned me from the door for a beggar. This thought made me timid, and I fear you must have thought me very ridiculous in presenting myself as I did. Such, madam, is poverty, humiliating both to mind and body; for I once knew how to enter a room in a proper manner, and have often scolded and punished young ladies as rich and as charming as yourself. Madame de Monville smiled with such kind affa- bility, that the poor professor felt quite at home. Indeed, said he to De Monville, I am de- lighted to see you ! And I also, said De Monville, shaking the old man kindly by the hand. Come, you are still the samekind, and with- out pride; you set me so much at ease that I will ask permission to sit down at the fire while you explain what I can do to be useful to you. It is long since I saw any fire in my own room, save that of a candle, and I go to bed often with the sun. He drew an arm-chair towards the chimney, sat down, stretched out his legs, placed his elbows upon his knees, and held his wrinkled hands to the fire. Dc Monville, who found his old professor as simple and good natured as formerly, looked at him with t.nnplacencv. I see, my poor old friend, said he, Fortune has not been kind to you: but since you sometimes thought of me, why did you not come to see mc? You would have been always welcome. I was, perhaps, wrong; but you who have been always rich know but one side of charity. It is easy to give, but it is difficult to beg. Well, at all events, I thank the chance that has again brought us together. There is some- thing here to employ you for a few weeks, and you must allow me to set my own price upon your work. We must fix a fair price, sir, and the little talent I have remaining is at your service. You live in our neighborhood? I occupy a small room in the Rue St. Romain, No. 4. Reinsberg did not perceive that his answer star- tled both De Monville and his wife. A short silence ensued, during which they looked at each other with an air of constraint. Come, sir, said the old man, what am I to do for you? Dc Monville placed before him the packet of papers he wished him to copy; and the old man was about to depart, but Alfred detained him. Afraid to interrogate him openly, the words, Rue St. Romain, No. 4, rang in his ears. If his wife had not been present, he would have questioned him at once on the subject nearest to his heart. And what have you been doing these many years? inquired Dc Monville. Soniething that ill-suited me. I lost my situa- tion as a writing-master in a school, and my pupils fell off, not because I was unable to teach, but be- cause a new style of tuition had come into fashion, by which the entire art of caligraphy was t~ught in a dozen lessons. What could I do? I was forced to take a little shop, or, more truly, a stall, and became a public letter-writer. The trade was, perhaps, more profitable than that I had lost; but it made me a kind of accomplice in so many in- trigues and so much wickedness that I became dis- gusted with it. More than omice I thought of giving it up; and a circumstance which, in spite of me, troubled my conscieocea letter I had been weak enough to copy for a miserable reward, made me at length finally abandon it~ A letter ? said Dc Monville, with seeming indifference. Yes, an anonymous letter, which contained a most serious accusation. I must tell you, I always held in contempt accusations that the authors were ashamed to sign. My opinion through life has been, that truth can show itself barefaced any- where. Dont you think so, sir? I do, said De Monville, so much taken up by the old mans discourse that he did not look at his wife, who had become of a deathlike paleness. But how could this letter affect you so much as to induce you to give up your business ? Because it might have injured, or, indeed, have been the death of, an innocent person; it might also, it is true, have enlightened another and unmasked the blackest perfidy. And why, observed Madame de Monville, in a calm voice, but not free from a certain tremulous- ness why, for your own tranquillity, not believe the second supposition as probable as the first ? The poor professor lifted his eyes to heaven and sighed. Once I could have done so, madam, but now 48 THE ~ECRIVAIN PUBLTC.~ Now ! repeated De Monville. Now I cannot, said Reinsberg, sadly. It was a presentiment, too soon, too fatally realized ! Of whom did the letter speak ? asked De Monville. Of a young woman. And to whom was it directed ? That I never knew. It was a boy who brought it me to be copied, and he had orders to have the direction written by another person ; nor would he inform me whether he had received his directions from a man or a woman. Such mystery made me uneasy; the singular precautions taken appeared to me so strange and sinister that I had a superstitious foreboding of evil to spring from it. lt was not the first time I had felt my apprehensions excited by such letters, but never to such an extent. The more I reflected the more convinced I became that I had made myself an instrument of evil to the in- nocent by this deed. So I closed my shop and took up my residence in Rue St. Romain. The first two nights I passed in my new habitation were calm and silent; but, about the middle of the third, I heard stifled moans as of a person in extreme suffering. The next day I was informed that the apartment opposite mine was occupied by a young ~voman, whose life was despaired of. A few days had elapsed, when one afternoon, as I returned home, I was surprised to see her door standing wide open. I looked inno one in the first room ; I calledno answer; the silence was alarming. I entered the inner room, and there I saw, stretched on a bed, the pallid, inani- mate form of a once beautiful young woman. I replaced her poor head, which had fallen off the bed, upon her pillow; and, by the aid of a bottle of salts, which stood on the chimney, after some time restored her to consciousness. I found, on inquiry, that her servant had left her that very day. Without inquiring into her pecuniary resources, I hired a nurse. She had, fortunately, a few pieces of gold, and the unfortunate Mademoiselle Chate- nay, for I forgot to tell you her name De Monville rose with a convulsive start, and Reinsberg, interrupting himself, saw him pale as ashes, his face bathed in tears; he looked at Madame de Monville, despair seemed written upon every feature. Her husband approached her; he took her hand and said. Matilda, these tears, which flow in spite of myself, are an offence to your love. I feel it; pray leave the room, and forgive me ! She looked down, and replied in a low voice, but in a tone of indescribable anguish, as she with- drew I knew you still loved her ? Reinsberg had risen also, he was confounded, and when he saw himself alone with De Monville, he scarcely knew whether he ought to go on or not; but Alfred, delivered from the restraint he had until then imposed upon hiiself, seized his arm with frantic eagerness, and exelaimed. Is she dead? Yes. De Monville sank on a chairs and covered his face with his hands. For a few moments he suc- cessfully endeavored to suppress his feelings, but the effort was beyond his strength: and his whole frame became shaken by an agony of grief. After a few minutes he rose, and, pressing the hand of Reinsberg Excuse this weakness, my old friend, said he. The old professor wiped his eyes, but he spoke not. And she was calumniated ? said Alfred. She was.~~ Who told you so? Herself. The proofs of her innocence are un- deniable. What proofs? Explaintell inc all you know ! Her sufferings were long protracted, said the old man, and I passed whole days and nights by her bedside. I tended her as a father, and gained her entire confidence; she told me her miserable story; that the day before that fixed for her mar- riage, her lover came to her residence excited to madness by an anonymous letter, in which she was accused of infidelity to him. She showed it to me. Judge of my feelings when I recognized my own writing! It was the letter about which I had felt such an ominous presentiment. I besought her for, as I had involuntarily injured her, I wished to repair the wrong I had done herto tell me the name of the person to whom the infamous calumny had been written, that I might acquaint him with his error. She was inflexible. It is too late now, said she, laying her white thin hand upon her bosom, death is already here. Why impor- tune him? Let him forget me, though it is cruel to he thus forgotten. I still love him so tenderly, that it would be yet more cruel for me to know I had afflicted him with unavailing regrets. Her dying agony was long, and she bore her sufferings with a resigpation more like that of a heavenly spirit than a poor being of human clay. One even- ing the nurse and I were seated near her. She saw my tears, for I had begun to love her as my own child, and the hour of separation was visibly at hand. Nay, said she, in her low angelic voice, do not weep, my last, my only friend, but rejoice, for your poor Louisas sorrows and suffer- ings are at an end. My hand was in hers,I felt a faint pressure, and all was (aver! No words can do justice to the feelings with which Dc Monville listened to the old mans tale. For some time after he had closed his mournful narrative, he remained gazing silently on the ground. At length, suddenly starting to his feet, as if his last refuge lay in doubt, he approached Reinsberg. You say she was calumniated, but the proofl where is the proof? Listen, said the old professor. It appcars that she had satisfactorily explained the visit of a person mentioned in the anonymous letter. The circumstance which occasioned the rupture was the ab~traction of a ring. This ring she was accused of having given to her pretended lover, and she was unable to account for its loss. Now this ring had been stolen by her old servant, a woman named Marian, who had been bribed to purloin it from her desk. The day I first saw poor Louisa, this wretched woman, stung by remorse, had suddenly left her, but had left behind her a written account of her crime, without, however, naming the person who had bribed her. She had laid this letter on the bed of her dying mistress during her sleep, not daring to confess it herself, and supplicated her pardon. Louisa fainted on reading the letter, and then it was I first entered her room, as I have told you. Enough, enough ! said De Monville. It was I who received that anonymous letter, I who murdered the unfortunate Louisa! But who can 49 50 THE ECRIVAIN PUBLIC~~ have formed such an infernal plotl Had my poor Open! pray open ! said a gentle, timid voice. st angel no suspicion? You have nothing to fear. Do you not recog- She mentioned no one, but she spoke to me nize me? sometimes of a friend of her intended husbands Reinsberg opened the door. A female covered family. with a veil entered with precipitation. She ap- M. St. George! Ah! he it was, without a peared a prey to the most violent agitation. She doubt! my mothers confidant. Could they have removed her veil to breathe more freely, and the plotted together? Oh, no, no! my mother could old professor uttered an exclamation of surprise on notwould not! No, he acted alone. I remem- seeing the alteration a few hours had wrought in ber his opinions on the subject. the features of Madame de Monville. If you were more calm, said Reinsberg, I Shut the door, said she. would give you the proof you requirethe original Before he did so, Reinsberg looked down the of the letter. staircase. Have you got it still? You are alone, maam ! Yes, I kept it: I have it at home. Nobody knows, or is to know, I am here. If Bring it me to-morrownay, this evening ever you should be interrogated on the subject, this very momentI must have it. Let us go for swear you will not betray me. it at once ! Madam, replied the professor, whose sur- When the old professor saw the eagerness and prise was increased by the excited manner of his the sinister expression of satisfaction which lighted visitor, I do not like to bind myself by an oath, up the features of IDe Monville, he repented hay- which it is sometimes both difficult and painful to ing owned that he had the letter still in his posses- keep. Be kind enough to let me know the motive sion. of your visit. We could not find it now. I must search for I conceive your prudence, but fear nothing. it, said he. Perhaps I h~ e mislaid it. Be- The discretion I require is far more necessary for sides, I will not give it you till I know what you me than for you. intend to do with it. She looked around the room, and, after a pause I want a proof, that s ah, replied De Mon- of a few seconds, added, We must speak low, ville, with apparent calmness. must we not? Our conversation can be heard in Very well, I now take my leave, and will the next room? bring it you to-morrow, if I find it, as I trust I Yes, madam, it was in this room I overheard, shall. without listening, the moanings of the unfortunate It was dark. Reinsberg took leave of his friend, Louisa. You had left the room, madam, when I and returned to his humble home. He was nowise terminated the sad recital. embarrassed about giving him the letter he desired. Yes, yes, interrupted she, in a brief agitated He had merely thought it prudent to take some voice, this Louisa is dead: I know that. precautions respecting the use he intended to make Ah, your hnsband has had time to relate it to of it, and the assumed calmness of Alfred had com- you since I left! pletely satisfied his more than pacific nature. I have not seen him. De Monville did not think his old friend quite so Is he aware of your being here? simple-minded as be really was; for as soon as he No. was alone, he said to himself, He will not bring But, madam, should he remark your absence it me; but I do not want it. this evening? An hour afterwards a servant was despatched to This evening! oh, he II not think of inquiring carry three letters; two were directed to a couple about me this evening! I am far enough from his of De Monvilles friends, the third was to M. St. thoughts. George. Notwithstanding his want of penetration and his complete ignorance of the passions, Reinsberg be- CHAPTER V.THE UNEXPECTED VISIT. gan to guess the secret pain which had 50 altered SCARCELY had ten minutes elapsed after Reins- the charming features of his visitor, and given bergs return home when he was disturbed by a them such an air of wildness. lie remembered the low tap at. his door. As he was busily occupied in tears De Monville had striven in vain to conceal looking over his old papers to find the manuscript from her, the words lie used when he prayed her he had promised Alfred for the next morning, he to withdraw. He saw that jealousy had stung her did not answer the summons. Indeed, as he ex- to the heart. Still he could not discover the mo- pected no visit and had heard no one ascend the tive of her visit to him. She motioned him to take narrow staircase, he concluded the noise must have a seat at her side. been occasioned by some window left open, and You have kept the copy of the anonymous let- agitated by the wind. He, therefore, quietly con- ter? tinned his search. In a few seconds his attention Reinsberg looked at her with surprise, not clear- was again drawn to the sound of somebody groping ly understanding whether she interrogated or af- at his door, evide~aly feeling for a bell-rope. Alas! firmed a fact she was certain of. a bell was an article of household luxury long un- You have kmpt it. You are to give it to-mor- known among Reinsbergs domestic chattels. Soon row to my htisb~nd. Do not e,ideavor to deny it. after the visitor gave an audible knock. I was in the next room, and overheard all you Who s there? What do you want? said the said. You must give me the COIIY of that letter. professor. I have promised it, madam, to your bus- The stranger returned no answer, but knocked band. again. To him or to me, what does it signify? Come to-morrow, said the old man. Come If you were here with his consent. back to-morrow; I am in bed, and have no light. You will tell him you have mislaid it, and ho Unfortunately, the light was seen through the will believe you without hesitation. You told him chinks of the door, and contradicted his assertion. you were not quite certain of finding it. THE ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.~ I greatly fear I spoke the truth. No; you first declared you had it in your pos- session, and I see you have already begun to look for it. 1 must have the copy of this letter! said she, with energy, increasing to wildness. Give it mesell it me! Set on it what price you will. I must have it. You are poor, and I can make you rich ! Thongh she spoke with such rapidity that Reins- berg could not interrupt her, she had opened her reticule. Take this, continued she; here are four bank-notes of 1000 francs each ! Seeing the poor professors look of bewildered astonishment, she took it for sordid hesitation. It is not enough, I know it is not. I had no more in my desk. But you shall have whatever you desire; triple this sum, 20,000 francs, if you demand itmy whole fortune. Besides, here are my jewels. Look, take them ! Her features, lately so pale, were now flushed and animated, her eyes shone with unnatural lus- tre, her hands, with a motion so rapid as to be al- most imperceptible, emptied her reticule A neck- lace of the finest pearls, rich jewelry, diamonds, rings, fell in a shower upon the table. ne poor man looked at her in utter bewilder- ment. There lay before him more money than he had seen throughout his whole life. And this un- hoped-for fortune was thrown at his feetall his own ; he had but to extend his hand, and it was his. But these were not the thoughts which dwelt U~Ofl his honest mind. Between the wealth he had never known, and the destitution which was abridg- ing his old age, no idea of speculation rose even for an instant; and it was with tears in his eyes, and in a voice tremulous with pity, that he said How unhappy you must be, madam ! Yes, I am unhappy; hut it depends on you that I cease to be so. You can restore me to re- pose, to happiness2 Will you accept my offer2 The recital of this melancholy event has re- vived the remembrance of past affections. I ought to have perceived it and interrupted my story when ne requested you to withdraw. I should not have redpened an ill-closed ~vound. You must pardon me, madam, for the ill I have involuntarily caused. I had still present to my memory the death of this poor girl, so infamously calumniated. Had you known her as I did, madam, had you beard her protest her innocence, you would not now require this undeniable proof to be convinced of it. But pardon, madam, I am again afflicting you, and for- get what I did not know till now, that love is jeal- ous even of the grave. You tremble lest the mem- ory of one he formerly loved should rob you of a part of his tenderness. I shall ever, madam, re- proach myself with having occasioned you this dis- tress. But how can the possession of this letter restore you to happiness? What can make you desire it 50 ardently as to be ready to purchase it at the price of your whole fortune? Whether Matilda bad no satisfactory answer to give to this question, or was too much agitated to reply, we cannot tell, but she remained silent. Reinsberg continued When I found M. de Monville so determined on having this letter, I was afraid he might know the writing, and that it might lead to a duel with the authoVof it. He convinced me these appre- hensions were groundless. But what must I think now? Yes, exclaimed Matilda, seizing the idea thrown out by the old professor, your friendship for him anticipated the danger my love would pre- vent. I fear for his life. You now understand why I came here at this hour of the nightwhy my coming must remain a secret. I knowno matter howI know who wrote this letter; my husband will recognize the band, he will challenge the writer, and I shall lose him a second time through this wretched girl. Give me, then, the letterlet me annihilate this proof; and when the fact is re- duced to a mere suspicion, when the ~vriter can deny it with security, I shall be happyat least, delivered from all fears for my husbands life. The letterthe letter! On my knees I entreat you to give it me Rise, madam, said Reinsberg, I regret too deeply what has taken place not to restore you to peace if it be in my power. But take back your money and your jewels. I shall accept of nothing; it is a reparation that I owe you, not a proof that 1 sell. And so saying, the noble-minded old man re- turned Madame de Monville her money and je~vels. He then rose and went to his desk, and having looked over the papers for a short time, returned towards her. On beholding the sheet of yellow paper he held in his hand, she sprang forward and seized it with a convulsive grasp. As she perused it, the extraordinary change of expression her countenance exhibited would have been ill ex- plained to a more penetrating eye than that of Reinsberg by the pleasure of preventing a duel: her joy was a species of delirium, it seemed as if the stronger of the opposite dispositions combined in her charactera contrast we have already re- markedhad broken loose, and, disdaining all con- trol, all dissimulation, burst through the wall of iron which had so long compressed it. Her fea- tures seemed to have taken another character, She was no longer a gentle, timid, supplicating wo- man. but a lioness. And as if her hands were not sufficient, she tore the letter with her teeth, col- lected every particle of it, and burnt it piece by piece at the candle. As it consumed, her brilliant eye followed the progress of the flame, as if it had been the suffering of an expiring victim. When all was destroyed, she blew upon the black ashes, and dispersed them with a breath. Nothing morenothing morenot a trace the letter never existed! Saved, saved ! ex- claimed she; I am saved ! And she laughed, she wept, in a breath. She clasped the old man round his neck before he had time to express his surprise at her frantic joy. It is to you I am indebted for my happiness, said she. Never, never shall I forget it! You have refused my gifts, but come and see me; my fortune is yours, as I have already told you~ Farewell !it is late. I have your word. You will be discreet, will you not? Farewellfare- well! Do not come out, I need no protector. My only danger is past. She opened the door, sprang to the staircase, and, despite the darkness of the place, such was the lightness of her tread, that Reinsberg could scarcely hear her step. The street-door closed, he turned to the window, and thromingh the glass, dimmed by frost and snow, he perceived, by the faint light of the lanips, a slight female figure turn- ing the street-corner. The old professor was some minutes before he recovered himself, and then a thousand different ideas crowded themselves into his poor brain. Ait, 51 52 TIlE ~ ECRIVAIN PUBLIC. ChAPTER VI.EXPIATION. MATILDA returned home; her husband had not inquired for her. The next morning at day-break, De Monville rose from the secretary at which he had been writing since the preceding evening, after having received answers to the three letters which he had despatched. He read over some letters and sealed them. One, a very long one, and bathed with his tears, was directed to his wife. Another, which covered several sheets of paper, was to be delivered to his notary, to whom he had intrusted his title-deeds: it contained his will. He placed them both in his pocket-book, and left the others on the mantelpiece. His wifes apartment was separated from his by a small room, the door of which opened into his library. He laid his hand on the lock, and paused to listen; all was calm. if She is asleep, said he; I can go out, and, Heaven be just, return without having disturbed her rest. In two hours it will be all over; he or I J must go! He muffled himself up in his cloak, took a case of pistols from the table, and turned the key gently in its lock. At the same instant the door opened on the other side, and he found himself in the presence of his wife, pale, haggard, and in a dress which attested that she had been up all night. De Monville drew back some steps. Matilda entered the study, pushed the door to with violence, and without a word, without asking or giving an explanation, with a rapid and imperious gesture, she opened his mantle, and snatched the case of pistols from her husbands hands. You ar~ going to fight a duel ? said she. De Monville, who had scarcely recovered from his surprise, replied I am this morning to act as a second to one of my friends. Do not be uneasy, my love, and let me go. You cannot deceive me; you are going to fight a duel ! My dear No useless words, no false oaths! You are going to fight; no one has told me so, but I know it., evil thought was the last he could conceive; and Now tell me again you are not going to fight a if the thoughts of his hopeless penury for a mo- duel ! ment intruded, it seemed as if the gifts he had re- Matilda, replied he, in a low, solem.n voice, fused would have laid heavy on his conscience had it has always been my fate to test too severely he accepted them, the inexhaustible goodness that makes you an an- He wrote to De Monville, and told him that he gel. You alone were just towards her whom your had searched in vain for the letter; that he had title of wife to-day makes you detest. When I kept it a long time, but that it was no longer in was sinking under my grief for her loss, you alone existence. He ~vent to bed, but he could not drive consoled me. For two years past, every day has away the vague forebodings of evil which haunted witnessed fresh proofs of your devoted love; and, his mind. believe me, without the unforeseen revelation of yesterday, which has cast me so violently back up- on the past, no complaint, no regret, no sign of remembrance, should ever have escaped my heart. Seek, then, my Matilda, in that virtue no woman but yourself possesses, fortitude equal to th~ trial of to-day! Yes, I am going to meet an antagonist. I no longer endeavor to deceive you. You have nothing to fear from love, for it is not in the power of revenge to bring back to life the being I have adored; but the wretch by whose slander she perished, must receive the just reward of his infa- my. To-day, to-morrow, twenty years hence, as long as my arm can wield a sword, or aim a pistol at his heart, I shall seek satisfaction and revenge for the death of poor Louisa. I wished to avoid you; I dreaded your tears, your reproaches, your despair! But my last thoughts were for you. Here is the letter I wrote to yoi~,in which I bade you farewell. Receive it now, since a fatal chance has placed you on my road. Do not endeavor to detain me. It is a reparation I owe, and in risking my life I expiate in some sort my wretched credu- lity, and the error I should have been the first to disbelieve. Matilda stood before him dumb, motionless, her hands joined; but when she saw him preparing to depart, she seized him violently by the ann. What ! cried she, with an accent of concen- trated rage, I must be again resigned! patience, forever patience! Another can know the passion, feel and awaken a heart to love; but my lot is ever the coldness and the insensibility of the marble! No, no; it shall not be thus. You ask too much; you ask for one act of virtue more. I ask of Heaven but to preserve my reason, which I feel ready to abandon me, to prevent the fatal secret of my heart ascending to my lips; that my voice may expire before, in my madness, I reveal the terrible truth ! What do you mean 1 demanded De Monville, alarmed, and, in spite of himself, impressed with a vague foreboding of something horrible, What does this folly imply ~ Must I again explain why I sulThr! Can you deceive me Was this woman, then, so very beautiful She must have been so, since even the recollection of her is stronger than my love! Tell Fight !For what iWith whom! me how could she have loved you with a passion With whom 2with the man who you suppose deeper than mine B Here Matilda threw herself wrote the anonymous letter, and whom you think madly upon her knees before him. Promise me, you know. Why !to revenge the death of a said she, that you will not gothat you will woman you have always loved, always regretted. forget this womanfor my sakefor me, a be- know it to be so. Does not the heart feel its wildered, wretched suppliant at your feet ! abandonment! Does jealousy require to be warn- Do Monville was moved, but not shaken. He edt Does it want eyes! Did I not see you yes- felt the distress of his wife, and knew how violent terday, while the old man was speaking to you, must be her grief to dictate such passionate and entirely absorbed by the remembrance of your mis- incoherent language. But her words fell upon his tress! You thought, indeed, of mepoor, aban- ear more than upon his heart. Since the eve, his doned creature !but only to tell me to withdraw, whole thoughts, his whole soul, were devoted to and not to disturb your affliction by my presence. the memory of Louisa. He disengaged himself, And do you think that because I retired I neither~and advanced towards the door. saw your tears nor heard the resolution you took! I Matilda rose precipitately, and gazed on him for THE ECRIVAIN PUBLIC.~ a Ccw seconds, as if to be certain he was going to quit her. And so, said she, you leave me! All I have said to detain you is vain. You mean to go? 1 must, Aiid return here avenged or dead? Yes. And you leave me during your absence to my solitude and despair! In the presence of your adversary no thought of me will make your heart beat quicker or your hand less steady. And what awaits me? You ~vill return to deplore her loss, or be brought back a corpseperhaps, a dying man, whose last accents I shall hear repeating the name of Louisa. Oh, on such terms I would rather, a thousand times rather see you dead at my feet! Alfred, Alfred, you cannot know the agony you cause me! You cannot know that you are driving me to madness But she exclaimed with sn(lden vehemence, and placing herself before the door, you shall not goyou shall not fight! Who is your antagonist? St. George, is it not? Who else can it be? And if he refuse? lie will not refuse. I have received his an- swer. But if he deny having written the letter, what will you then do ? I will brand him as a coward. I will collar him with one hand, and strike him to the earth with the other And then he will fight, and you will perish hear me ! said sIte, approaching him, and speak- ing in a hoarse, unnatural whisper, it was not he who wrote the letter. Who then ? asked Dc Monville, with a fear- ful apprehension of the truth. One whom you cannot strike. One who can- not, will not let you expose your life. One who, on her knees, again beseeches you to remain; whom her love for you alone has rendered criminal; whose love for you now betrays her. It was I! Ar this frightful revelation, the features of De Monville assumed a ghastly hue; he laid his hand on the chimney to support himself, but speedily recovered. Youyou ! repeated he, after an interval of terrible silence. Yes, 1! said she, endeavoring to take his hands; but he shuddered at her touch, and cast her violently from him. He looked earnestly upon her, and in an instant, as it were, all was explained; his mind fathomed the depths of that profound dissimulation, the abyss of that heart, a volcano burning beneath its suows. At length, he cried 4 What had she done to you, madam? Matilda advanced towards him. You ask me what she had done. SHE LovEn you !that was her crime. Do not ask how I was informed of the visits of M. Preville. I was jealous. With gold I bought all the secrets I wanted to know. It was I who wrote the letter, and took every precaution related by the old pro- fessor. Yesterday evening I went to his lodging, obtained the paper written in my own hand, and destroyed it. I bribed Marian, and she stole the ring which was to serve as a proof against her mis- tress. I did all this, and it seems to me a dream; I can scarcely believe it myself. I cannot even think I have revealed my dreadful secret to you. Alas! my reason wanders. But why have I spoken? Because your life was in dangerbe- cause I desired to save you ! It was, then, to you her servant delivered the ring ? said De Monville, with a look of inde- scribable fury. Give it me It is no longer in my possessionI have not got it. Your looks terrify meyour voice makes me tremble! Have you no pity for me Had you any for her ? Her, always her ! Do you forget she is deadthat yot. are her assassin? Pity for you ! said be, with a frightful laugh; pity !never, never! And have I not suffered? Have I not been jeal- ous? Am I not still so? Did I not suffer when, victim to a passion which has made me the wretch I am, I saw you day after day leave the house to visit her? Did I not devour my tears in silence? Calm and insen- sible to all appearance, did not my heart beat with joy even at the sound of your footsteps? Did I not tremble with rapture at the tone of your voice, or when your hand touched mine? And what has been my lot for the lest two years? During the day, SHE, 5HE alone occupied your thoughts. At night, in your dreams, her name alone was on your lips. Did I ever complain? And to-day, when the fear of losing you has driven me to madness, an~ forced me to speak, you cast me from you without pity! Your eyes have not a tear for my agonies, your heart not an excuse for my guilt guilt occasioned by excess of love! She could die, for you loved her. But what will be my fate, to live, if you love me no longer? Oh, pity me, Alfredpity me, pity me! Let fall on me but one look of former timesof yesterday, and I will leave you! You will deplore her loss; and when the bitterness of grief is past, I will return-I will kneel to you and crave forgiveness ! She had crept close to him; he thrust her back again. Infamous woman ! exclaimed he. Give me the ring, if you still possess it ! ~AThat will you do with it? Cover it with kisses before your eyes, that you may witness, before our eternal separation, how fondly I loved her to whom it belonged ! Separation ! exclaimed Matilda, rising with the energy of despair separation ! Ab, this is too much! You think me weak and trodden down to earth! Separation! Am I not your wife? How will you obtain it? Will you say I killed your mistress through jealousy? Where is the proof ?The letter? I have destroyed it! Never will I quit you with life! Madam, after this hour, we shall never more see each other on earth. Every dayI will daily importune you with my love, my complaints, my jealousy! Silence, madam, silence ! Ah! you think you have suffered because you have lost a mistress; and another woman, whose mind you have distracted, obtains from you, as the price of her love, but threats of a separation. No, no; we are bound, indissolubly bound to each other; no power on earth shall separate us. Our life may be a hell, but, accustonied to suffer, I ac- cept my lot. Wild and distracted, she had seized her hus- bands arms, who vainly endeavored to free himself, and who felt himself provoked beyond endurance. At this moment the study door was suddenly thrown open, and three men entered. Dc Mon- ville, making a last effort to disengage himself, 53 .54 THE ECRIVAIN PUHLIC.~~ pushed his wife rudely from him. She staggered just taken place shall be my punishment for an act and fell to the ground. of brutality 1 blush for too late. Alfred turned to the intruders. He drew near his wife, and said, in a low Gentlemen, said he, the hour fixed for the voice duel is past; without doubt, M. St. George, this Madam, if you refuse to agree to a separation, is the object of your visit. An instant later and I I will dishonor you in the eyes of these gentlemen should have been on my way to apologize for the by acquainting them with your crime.,~ letter I wrote you yesterday. Pray accept my A month afterwards the separation was legally apologies! You see the cause of my delaya pronounced. Two months had scarcely elapsed, domestic quarrel, which 1 cannot hide as I have when IDe Monville appeared in mourning for the done the preceding ones. My wife desires a sep- death of his wife; and before the year was over, aration, which I would not consent to. But I nu Reinsberg followed a rich funeral, which came out longer object to it. Your testimony* as to what has of an h6tel in the Rue de Grenelle. * It may he The old professor was handsomely provided for that in necessary to explain to the English reader, by his friend, but he never quitted his humble garret France nis necessary to p rove nn act of violence on the part of the husband to afford grouiids for a claim in the Rue St. Romain. of separation made by the wife. TWO SYSTEMS OF ASTRONOMY, stoutness with which he maintains his opinions, holding the evidence of his own sense against all A VERY curious production, entitled Two Systems deductions of reason, and asserting the probability of Astronomy, has been issued by a Mr. Isaac that the sun is not above six miles distant, and that Prost. The author, a shrewd man on some points, the firmament is the veritable floor of heaven. and a sturdy reasoner, undertakes to prove that the Such a man in these days is a marvel. We are Newtonian system is etitirely false, and that the afraid he has been born some centuries too late. Mosaic account of the Creation is to be taken in its Had he lived in the age of Galileo or Colombus he exact and literal sense. He maintains that things would have been an ugly customer for either. It are, as we see them by the eye; that the sun and may be imagined that when he comes to deal with stars revolve round the earth, which is the great the mathematical reasoning necessary to the higher centre of the universe; and that the firmament is a astronomical calculations, his conceptions are very material concave separating us from heaven. In vague and cloudy. Thus, for example, he asserts his view the real size of the sun does not greatly that the earth cannot be more distant than three surpass its apparent size; the moon shines with a times its own radius from the sun. Ihe proof of lustre of her own, and the stars are mere spangles this is so badly expressed that it is almost uiiintel- set in heaven to heighten the glory of Creation. higible; but after many efforts we find that it in- The author clings to his convictions with the sin- volves either the absurdity of supposing that two cerity of undoubting faith; and has illustrated the tangents can he drawn to a circle through the same two systems of astronomy, that of Newton, and point in its circumference, or that the difficulty i8 that of the Scriptures, (as Mr. Frost terms his own overcome of seeing through a stone wall at the theory,) by a number of beautiful plates. Some equatora fact whit~i has hitherto escaped the ob- of his objections to the Newtonian system are sub- servation of experienced navigators. The objec- lie, and he pounces on the vague and extravagant tions urged by Mr. Frost tc the Newtonian theory Rssertions of those astronomers who love the mar- are, such of the.m, at least~ as can lay no claim to vellons more than the exact with great dexterity, originality, plausible enough. Such are the small As for example in this passage . visible alterations (to the naked eye) of the plan- A gentleman once said he would convince me ets great alterations of distance notwithstanding, of the error of my (what he termed) foolish notions and the apparent impossibility of return in a planet in about ten minutes, and for this purpose he intro- when farthest removed from the sun, on account duced Bonnycastle on Astronomy. Opening the f of the weakness of the suns attraction at a dis- book, he showed me the following passage, and tance; hut thcse objections have been satisfactorily icquested me to read it, and say what I thought of answered over and over again. One word only on it : his assertion that the book is the result of many The celebrated Huygens carried his thoughts years of careful study. There is no doubt of it. so far upon this subject as to believe that there But we must value works according to the grasp might be stars at such an inconceivable distance of the mind that produces them, not according to from the earth that their light, though it is known the time employed in their composition. A dog is to travel at the rate of ten millions of miles in a a very intelligent animal, yet he could never be minute, has not yet reached us since the creation brought to work a rule of three sum that is mere ~ T T of the ~vorld! to a schoolboy. Have we said cnou~h to When i had read the aforesaid, iasked him if w how it is that Mr. Frost cannot comprehend it had ever crossed his mind to think how many of Newtons theory? The volume has been got up the other stars light the light of such stars would at some expense, and the astronomical illustrations, interfere with in their progress to our earth, seeing printed in oil colors, are extremely beautiful, it is their light expands as it travels? when he closed altoe~etber a curiosityan offering at the shrine of the book, saying such an idea had never entered sinc~rity which few persons have the heart to his mind before. make. If higher intellects would imitate Isaac The author apparently belongs to some peculiar Frosts courageous honesty the world might be the sects of rehigionists, as the Muggletonianis, or some better for their labors.Britannna. body of the kind. It is interesting to observe the THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MISS ROBINSON CRUSOE. 55 ChAPTER IX. PUNCTUALI v each day I visited this fish-pond; and each day observed the increasing sagacity of the finny-creatures. I am now very certain that, as my dear father used to say, we much underrate the moral perceptions of fish. I now believe with him, that fish think. Who shall say, my respected parent was wont to ask, that a lobster does not reason Take a lively lobster: put him in a sauce- pan full of cold water; then put the saucepan on the fire. As the fluid becomes heated, conveying strange sensations to the lobster, he begins to rea- sonto suspect that he is not in the sea. Faintly, languidly, perspiring, he gropes with his claws for the ocean bed; and they move scratchingly against a piece of iron or tin that he knows is neither rock, nor clay, nor shingle. And then, too late, he feels that he is being cooked; and as his life ebbs away in hot and boiling water, he sees, with his project- ing eyes, into the future. He sees himself as scar- let as a soldier of the line. And then he sees him- self placed in a dish; and one, or two, or three gentlemen, with twinkling eyes, looking down upon him. And then lie feels himself passing in mall pieces down the throats of the two or three ~.entlemen, who smack their mouths, as thongh they would never have a bellyfull. Now the lob- ster, my dear father would say, feels, though he has not words to express as much; the lobster feels, as I began to feel when I got into the court of chancery; even as I felt when I found myself chewed up after the suit had risen to boiling point, and I was completely done. Thus my father woul4 hold forth: xvhiNt my mother would move uneasily in her chair, and with the amiable freedom of a wife, beg him not to make a fool of himself. And I shared in the risible unbelief of my mother; but then I dreamt not of the sagacity of fish, for I had not angled with a wedding-ring. I was very soon undeceived. Doubtless, the un- caught fish quickly began to take count of the great number of their companions ensnared by that piece of gold wire, and so became shy accordingly. Be this as it may, sometimes for half a day and more would I angle with the ring, and never so much as j~et a nibble; lots of fine, brilliant young fish, with waistcoats of gold and silver scales, would corn floating and swimming, and flirting about the l~ ok, and making-believe to bite; and now, with a sudden twist and plunge of the ail, darting to the other side of the stream. You i av be sore that this vivacity, this weariness of the fish, made me frequently moralize; again and again led my thoughts back to a delicious world of routs and dances. Finding the fish become every day more shy, I laid by my golden hook and tackle for a time; and went abroad, when it was fine, with my pistol, as much for the pleasure of practising at a mark, asto see if I could kill anything that, when killed, I might turn to better account than my turkey. To my great delight, I discovered that the place abounded with rabbits. To be sore, they were as wild and skittish as colts; always running away when they saw me. At length, however, lying down among some high grass, I got a shot; fired, and killed a she-rabit which, fortunately, had six- teen little rabbits near her. When their mother fell, the poor little things ill gathered themselves together and never stirred a foot. Whereupon I took the old one antI flung her across my shoulder; at the same time placing all the little rabbits in my gown a~ in a form, and so carried them all to my hut. I cooked the old rabbit, first skinning it. it might have been ermine, I thought, and then what hopes of muffs and tippets. However, as it was, I felt grateful; for I knew the cold and rainy weather must set in, when even rabbit skins would be better than no skins at all. And now, I am about to enter into the most dreadful and melancholy relation of a silent life. Consider it, my sisters; a silent life. An exist- ence in which the tongue of ~voman becomes silent as echo when not spoken todear echo! that, lady- like, always has the last wordsilent as an un- untouched lute. As well as I can recollect, it was the 30th of September that, my footwhich I had already imagined dancing upon bleeding hearts in an Indian ball-roomfirst touched this inhospitable island. After a few days, it came into my mind that I would keep an exact reckoning of the time as it passed. I felt the more secure in doing this, that my journal would be quite private. At first, I thought of putting down the days and weeks on paperbut straying on the beach, an accident de- termined me otherwise. It will be remembered, that I spoke of a magnif- icent mirror that, with all the strength of woman J tore from the state-cabin. This mirror was dashed by the envious and relentless ocean from my raft, and sent, shivered in pieces, to be shared ainon~ the sea-nymphs. By a strong effort of the soul, 1 had wrenched this mirror from my daily thoughts when, one morning, bending my steps towards the beachthere had been an unusually high tideI saw, washed upon. the shore, that very mirror. Here, I thought, is one drop of honey in my cup of bitterness. I turned the mirror upit was lying, as T thought, upon its faceand discovered that there was nothing but the frame. The shell was there, but the gem was rifled. There was, indeed, its wooden frame, but its reflecting soul was gone. Soothing this new and most unnecessary afflic- tion as best I might, I resolved to turn my disap- pointment into some sort of profit. Whereupon I took the skeleton of the looking-glass, and set it tip in the earth. And then upon its sides I cot every day a notch, with double notches for what I recol- lected were opera nights. And this incident, too made me prettily moralize. Had the glass re.~ mained,~ I said to myselfthough I do not think. had anybody been present, I should have extended the confidence had the glass remained, t/mat~ without incision of knife, might have told of depart- ing years ;~told, I must say, more truly than, I fear, I did; for, whether it was idleness, whether it was womans instinct, I cannot say, but certain it is, I was always behind-hand marking my days marking, in the long.run, two instead of ten. It may, I know, be urged by the calumniators of our sex, that this on my part was design. But no: I repeat it; I think it was pure instinctnothing but instinct. I should observe that, among many things which I brought out of the ship were pens, ink, and pa- per; but of these I was extremely sparing; re- solving to write my life, and not knowing to what extent the materials might extend. I also found in the bottom of an old chest a prayer-book, that, strange to say, had nothing perfect but the mar- riage service. This, I confess it, was an omen that at first a little revived me. And then, let me add, I was not without a companion. No: there was the catthe very cat that had seem~.d to glare and mew perpetual celibacy at methat cat had smuggled herself among the things upon my raft~ and was the tenant of my hut. THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MISS ROBINSON CRUSOE. After a time, considering my situation, I began to put down my thoughts in writing; making a sort of debtor and creditor account of my position, thus: EVIL. GOOD. I am thrown upon a Then I have this con- desolate island, without a solationthere s nobody blessed soul to speak to. to scandalize me. I ahi singled out to be I might have been mar- a single woman, when I ned early to a brute, and might have been a wife been a grandmother at and a parent. ~eight-and-thirty! And so summing up this short account, I thought, its my dear mother used to say when she buttered her crumpets, that much might be said on both sides. CHAPTER X. hAVING now brought myself to look upon soli- tude and a single life as my future doom, I deter- milled to make the misfortunes, as far as I could endurable. Looking upon my hut as my home for the natural course of my life, I resolved to furnish it with all the necessaries in my power. The sur- gical instrument case, of which I have before spoken, was of the highest service to me. It ena- bled me to cut down a large supply of osiers, which grew in great abundance, as I afterwards discover- ed, at wh t I take it was the north-north-eastern by xvest part of the island. As a child I always dis- played gre precocity and taste in the manufacture of rush baskets. Indeed, I could make rushes in- to anything. This faculty was, at my need, of the greatest service to me ; and tItus, in progress of time, I had completely furnished my hut with chairs and tables and stools, and, at length, a bed- steadfor I grew tired of the hammockof wicker work. Of course, this was the result of a period; but then, time was of all thinus the cheap- est and most plentiful commodity with me. My furniture, when completed, had a very light and pleasing effect; and, I assure you, made me often think with a sigh of pity upon the vanities of ma- hogany and satin-wood. As I continued to make improvements in my hut, I found I required a lad- der; this I managed to make of rope and wicker; by which means I was enabled to climb into an upper chamber, drawing up my ladder after me. I had seen no signs of a human animal; neverthe. less, I thought it was only a proper precaution to be provided against the worst. The rainy season having set in, I began to write my journal, to whichas it is at this moment in the hands of a distinguished publisher, and will, in the season, appear under the title of Nights with the CannibalsI shall no further allude. (It will be sufficient for me, if the withering satire con- tained in that aquafortis volume shall be the means of awakening the savarres to a proper sense of Al- macks and the Italian ~opera.) During the time employed upon my wicker-work, I continued to make daily rambles about the island, to see what I could catch. I discovered to my great delight, that the place abounded with ring- doves. I managed to obtain some of the young, which I bronglat to nay hut. These beautiful creaturesemblems of household and conjugal affectionincreased exceedingly; and thus, in pro- cess of time, 1 never wanted a ring-dove for my supper. It went to my heart, of course, to kill them, at first; but custom and hunger soon recon- c~led me to the inconvenience. After a time, ruin- rnaging about, I found whole hives of wild honey and wax. The latter was of especial service to me, as, my candles getting every night shorter and shorter, I know not what I should have done for a light; for to have slept without a candleand in an uninhabited islandwould have been insupportable. The wax, however, with coiton that I ravelled out from some articles of dress, made me very endure- able tapers. I had, in my time, burnt better ~vax; but for home-made lights they were not the worst. About this time, I was fortunate enough to be visited by an earthquake. I say fortunate ; for though, while it lasted, I was very much terrified and very much wished for one of the earthquake gowns that ilorace Walpole, I think it is, says was very much in fashion in his time, when earthquakes used regularly to visit Londonnevertheless, as the island and the sea being well shaken, caused the wreck of the ship that lay at the bottom of the ocean, to be thrown high and dry ashoreI was enabled to come at a great many articles that, in my hurry and confusion, I had been unable to carry away upon my raft. It was on one of my visits to the wreck, that going down upon the beach, I discovered what, at first, I took to be a strange sea-monster, lying upon the shore. At length, after mucla exait,ination, I concluded that the creature was a turtle. I remembered that I had once seen such a thing at the door of a London tavern, when a child, with my father; and how my honored parent, to my surprise, suddenly l)aused before the fish, contem- plating it with an emotion that, at that time, I was far too young to understand. With considerable difficulty I carried the turtle to my hut, resolving to dress it. Whereupon I immediately consulted that precious volume, the Cookery Book, fortunately discovered in the cler- gymans cabin. I knew that I had not the proper means of dressing the turtle, and therefore felt (by atiticipation, of course) what the inimit~ Ide and im- mortal Soyer has since delivered to the world. Is it not bad enough to have sacrificed the lives of these animau bienfaisans to satisfy oor indefatiga- ble appetites, without pulling and tearing to atoms the remaitis of our benefactors It is high time, for the credit of humanity, and the comfort of quiet families, to put an end to the massacre of these innocents. With these thoughts, I addressed myself to the Cookery Book. I knew very well before I opened it that I had not a single ingredient proper for the dressing; nevertheless I took a strange, a wayward delight in ~ .e directions they afforded me such pleasures of he imaoina- tion. It was something in that dreadful solitude even to read of a quantity of very rich broth of veal, green onions, and all sorts of seasoning herbs, cayenne and the juice of lemons ; with, as a crowning delight, two bottles of Madeira ! Thinking of these things, and looking at my turtleand knowing, at the same time, that it must be eaten plain; not honored by any dress- ingso to speaksoever, I could not help com- paring its fate with my own. here it was, a beau- tiful turtlea turtle that, in London, would have fetched I know not how many poundsa turtle that would have gathered about it the choicest company of the land, cooked with exceeding care, and praised with exceedinb praises; yet neverthe- less doomed to be eaten in a derolate island, with- out a drop of veal broth, a pinch of cayenne, a squeeze of lemon, or a single glass of Madeira. Thinking thus of the turtle, and pondering upon my own condition, the reflective and sympathetic reader will not, cannot be surprised to learn that I wept. Let me, however, conclude this chapter in good spirits. rho turtles eggs I found delicious. 66

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 126.b OCTOBER, 1846. From TaiLs Magazine. true, tender, and holy poet But secondly, Is not JAMES MONTGOMERY. this true, tender, and holy poet partly himself to blame Has he not put himself in a false position BY GEORGE GILFILLAN, AUTHOR OF A GALLERY ~ Has he not too readily lent himself as an instrument LiTERARY PORTRAITS. of popular excitement? Is this progress of his alto gether a proper, a poets progress Would Milton, SOME four or five years ago, the inhabitants of a or Cowper, or Wordsworth have submitted to it? large city in the north of Scotland were apprized, And is it in good taste for him to eke out his ora- by handbills, that lames Montgomery, Esq., of tions by long extracts from his own poems? Sheffield, the poet, was to address a meeting on the Homer, it is true, sang his own verses; but lie did subject of Moravian missions. This announcement, it for food. Montgomery recites them, but it is for in the language of Dr. Caius, did bring de water fame. into our mouth. The thought of seeing a live We pass now gladlyas we did in thought then poet, of European reputation, arriving at our very from the progress to the poet-pilgrim himself. door, in a remote corner, wn~ absolutely electrify- We have long admired and loved James Montgom- ing. We went early to the chapel where he was cry. We loved him ere we could admire him: we announced to speak, and ere the lion of the evening wept under his spell crc we did either ~the one or appeared, amused ourselves with watching and the other. We will not soon forget the Sabbath analyzing the audience which his celebrity had col- eveningit was in golden summer tidewhen we lected. It was not very numerous, and not very first heard his Grave repeated, and wept as we select. Few of the grandees of the city had con- heard it. It seemed to come, as it professed to descended to honor him by their presence. Stranger come, from the grave itselfa still small voice of still, there was but a sparse supply of clergy, or of comfort and of hope, even from that stern abyss~ the prominent religionists of the town. The church It was a fine and bold idea to turn the great enemy was chiefly filled with females of a certain age, one into a comforter, and elicit such a r?ply, so tender or two stray hero worshippers like ourselves, afew and submissive, to the challenge, 0 Grave, where young ladies who had read some of his minor poems, is thy victory? Triumphing in prospect over the and whose eyes seemed lighted up with a gentle fire Sun himself, the grave proclaims the superiority and of pleasure in the prospect of seeing the author of immunity of the soul those beautiful verses on the Grave, and Prayer, The Sun is but a spark of fire, and two or three who had come from ten miles off A transient meteor in the sky; to see and hear the celebrated poet. When he at But thou! immortal as his Sire, length appeared, we continued to marvel at the aspect of the platform. Instead of being supported Shalt never die. by the ~iite of the city, instead of forming a rallying Surely no well in the wilderness ever sparkled centre of attraction and unity to all who had a sym- out to the thirsty traveller a voice more musical, pathy with piety or with genius for leagues round more tender, and more cheering, than this which it, a few obscure individuals presented themselves, Montgomery educes from the jaws of the narrow who seemed rather anxious to catch a little #5clct house. Soon afterwards we became acquainted from him, than to delight to do him honor. The with some of his other small pieces, which then evening was rather advanced ere he rose to speak. seized and which still occupy the principal place in His appearance, so far as we could catch it, was our regards. Indeed, it is on his little poems that quite in keeping with the spiritual cast of his poetry. the permanency of his fame is likely to rest, as it is He was tall, thin, bald, with face of sharp outline, into them that he has chiefly shed the peculiarity but mild expression; and we looked with no little and the beauty of his genius. James Montgomery reverence on the eye ~vhich had shot fire into the has little inventive or dramatic po~ver; he cannot Pelican Island, and on the hand, (skinny enough we write an epic: none of his larger poems, while ween,) which had written The Grave. He some are bulky, can be called great; but he is the spoke in a low voice, sinking occasionally into an best writer of hymns (understanding a hymn sini- inaudible whisper: but his action was fiery and his ply to mean a short religious effusion) in the lan- pantomime striking. In the course of his speech he guage. He catches the transient emotions of the alluded, with considerable effect, to the early heroic pious heart, which arise in the calm evening walk, struggles of Moravianism, when she was yet alone where the saint, like Isaac, goes out into the fields in the death-grapple with the powers of Heathen to meditate; or under the still and star-fretted mid- darkness, and closed (when did he ever close a night; or on his own delighful bed ; orin pensive speech otherwise?) by quoting a few vigorous verses contemplations of the Common Lot ; or under from himself. the Swiss heaven, where evening hardly closes the We left the meeting, we remember, with two eye of Mont Blanc, and stirs lake Lemans waters wondering questions ringing in our ears: first, Is with a murmur like a sleepers prayer: wherever, this fame? of what value reputation, which in a city in short, piety kindles into the poetic feeling such of sixty thousand inhabitants, is so freezingly emotions, he catches, refines, and embalms in his acknowledged? Would not any empty, mouthing snatches of lyric song. As Wordsworth has charlatan, any twopenny tear-mouth, any paint- expressed sentiments which the solitary lover of ed, stupid savage, any clever juggler, any dexterous nature was unable to utter, save with glistening eye player upon the fiery harp-strings of the popular I and faltering tongue, so Montgomery has given passions, have enjoyed a better reception than this poetic form and words, to breathings and pantinr~ cxxvi. LIVING AGE. VOL. XI. 4 JAMES MONTGOMERY. of the Christians spirit, which himself never sus- pected to be poetical at all, till he saw them reflect- ed in verse. He has caught and crystallized the tear dropping from the penitents eye; he has echoed the burden of the heart, sighing with grati- tude to Heaven; he has arrested and fixed in mel- ody, the upward glancing of an eye, when none but God is near. In his verse, and in Cowpers, the poetry of ages of devotion has broken silence, and spoken out. Religion, the most poetical of all things, had, for a long season, been divorced from song, or had mistaken pert jingle, impudent famili- arity, and doggerel, for its genuine voice. It was ieserved for the bards of Olney and Sheffield to renew and to strengthen the lawful and holy wed- lock. Montgomery, then, is a religious lyrist, and as such, is distinguished by many peculiar merits. His first quality is a certain quiet simplicity of Ian. guage and of purpose. His is not the ostentatious, elaborate, and systematic simplicity of Wordsworth; it is unobtrusive, and essential to the action of his mind. It is a simplicity, which the diligent student of Scripture seldom fails to derive from its pages, particularly from its histories and its psalms. It is the simplicity of a spirit which religion has subdued as well as elevated, and which consciously spreads abroad the wings of its imagination, under the eye of God. As if each poem were a prayer, so is he sedulous that its words be few and well ordered. In short, his is not so much the simplicity of art, nor the simplicity of nature, as it is the simplicity of faith. It is the virgin dress of one of the white- robed priests in the ancient temple. It is a sim- plicity which, by easy and rapid transition, mounts into bold and manly enthusiasm. One is reminded of the artless sinkings and soarings, lingerings and hurryings of Davids matchless minstrelsies, which come and go like the sounds of music borne on the wind. Profound insight is not peculiarly Mont- gomerys forte. He is rather a seraph than a cherub; rather a burning than a knowing one. He kneels; he looks upward with rapt eye; he covers at times his face with his wing; but he does not ask awful questions, or cast strong though baffled glances into the solid and intolerable glory. You can never apply to him the words of Gray. He never has passed the bounds of flaming space, where angels tremble as they gaze. lie has never invaded those lofty but dangerous regions of speculative thought, where some have dwelt till they have lost all of piety, save its grandeur and gloom. He does not reason, far less doubt, on the subject of religion at all; it is his only to wonder, to love, to weep, and to adore. Sometimes, but seldom can he be called a sublime writer. In his Wanderer of Switzerland, he blows a bold horn, but the echoes and the avalanches of the highest Alps will not answer or fall to his reveille. In his Greenland, he expresses but faintly the poetry of Frost; and his line is often cold as a glacier. His World before the Flood is a misnomer. It is not the young, virgin, undrowned world it profes- ses to be. In his West Indies, there is more of the ardent emancipator than the poet: you catch but dimly, through its correct and measured verse, a glimpse of Ethiopia, a dreadful appellant, standing with one shackled foot on the rock of Gibraltar, and the other on the Cape of Good Hope, and stretching forth her hands to an avenging God. And although, in the horrors of the middle passage, there were elements of poetry, yet it was a poetry which our authors genius is too gentle and timid fully to extract. A~ soon could he have added a story to Ugolinos tower, or another circle to the Inferno, as have painted that pit of heat, hunger, and howling despair, the hold of a slave-vessel. Let him have his praise, however, as the constant and eloquent friend of the negro, and as the laureate of his freedom. The high note struck at first by Cow- per in his lines, I would not have a slave, & c., it was reserved for Montgomery to echo and swell up, in reply to the full diapason of the liberty of Hams children, proclaimed in all the isles which Britain claims as hers. And let us hope that he will be rewarded, before the close of his existence, by hearing, though it were in an ear half-shut in death, a louder, deeper, more victorious shout springing from emancipated America, and of saying, like Simeon of old, or , now let thy servant de- part in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salva- tion. The plan of the Pelican Island was an unfor- tunate one, precluding as it did almost. entirely hu- man interest, and rapid vicissitude of events; and resting its power principally upon the description of foreign objects, and of slow though majestic pro- cesses of nature. Once, and once only, in this and perhaps in any of his poems, does he rise into the rare region of the sublime. It is in the description of the sky of the south, a subject which indeed is itself inspiration. And yet, in that solemn sky, the great constellations, hung up in the wondering evening air, the Dove, the Raven, the ship of Heaven, sailing from Eternity ; the Wolf, with eyes of lightnit~- watching the Centaurs spear ; the Altar blazing, eveii at the footsteps of Jehovahs throne ; the Cross, meek, emblem of redeeming love, which bends at midnight as when they were taking down the Saviour of the world, and which greeted the eye of Humboldt as he sailed over the still Pacific, had so hung and so burned for ages, and no poet had sung their praises. Patience, ye glorious tremblers! In a page of this Pelican Island, a page bright as your own beams, and like them immortal, shall your splendors be yet inscribed. This passage, which floats the poem, and will long memorize Montgomerys name. is the more remarkable, as the poet never saw but in imagination that unspeakable southern midnight. And yet we are not sure but, of objects so transcend~ cut, the vision of our own is the true vision, and the vision that ought to be perpetuated n song. For our parts, we, longing as we have ever done to see the Cross of the South, would almost fear to have our longings gratified, and to find the i eality, splendid as it must be, substituted for that vast image of bright quivering stars, which has si long loomed before our imaginations, and so often isited our dreams. Indeed, it is a question, in reference to objects which must, even when seen, derive their interest from imagination, whether they be not best seen by its eyes alone. Among Montgomerys smaller poems, the fines. is the Stanzas at Midnight, composed in S~vitz- erland, and which we see inserted in Longfellows beautiful romance of Hyperion, with no notic( or apparent knowledge of their authorship. They describe a mood of his own mind while passing a night among the Alps, and contain a faithful transcript of the emotions which, thick and sombre as the shadows of the mountains, crossed his soul in its solitude. There are no words of Fosters, which to us possess more meaning than that simple expression in his first essay, solemn meditations of the night Nothing in spiritual history is 58 JAMES MONTGOMERY. more interesting. What vast tracts of thought does the mind sometimes traverse when it cannot steep What ideas, that had bashfully presented themselves in the light of day, now stand out in hold relief, and authoritative dignity! How viv- idly appear before us the memories of the past! how do, alas! past struggles and sins return to recollection, rekindliug on our cheeks their first fierce blushes unseen in the darkness! How new a light is cast upon the great subjects of spiritual contemplation! What a hrowner hor- ror falls upon the throne of death, and the pale kingdoms of the grave! What projects are then formed, what darings of purpose conceived, and how fully can we then understand the meaning of the poet, In lonely glens, amid the roar of rivers, When the still nights were moonless, have I known Joys that no tongue can tell ; my pale lip quivers When thought revisits them ! 59 respects it is deficient, than for its generous and eloquent enthusiasm. It is delightful to find in an author, who had so to struggle up his way to dis- tinction, such a fresh and constant sympathy with the success and the merits of others. In this point he reminds us of Shelley, who, hurled down at one time, by universal acclamation, into the lowest abyss of contempt, both as an author and a mane could look tip from it, to breathe sincere admiration toward those who had usurped the place in public favor to which he was, and knew he was, entitled. We are not reminded of the Lakers, whose tarn- like narrowness of critical spirit is the worst and weakest feature in their characters. Truly a great mind never looks so contemptible as when, stooping from its pride of place, it ex- changes its own high aspirations after fame, for poor mouse-like nibblings at the reputation of others. Many tributes have been paid of late years to the Pilgrims Progress. The lips of Coleridge have waxed eloquent in its praise; Southey and Macau- lay have here embraced each other; Cheever, from America, has uttered a powerful sound in proclamation of its unmatched merits: but we are mistaken if its finest panegyric be not that con- tained in Montgomerys preface, prefixed to !he Glasgow edition. In it all the ihankfulness cherished from childhood, in a poets and a Chris- tians heart, toward this benign and beautiful book, comes gushing forth; and he closes the tribute with the air of one who has relieved himself from a deep burden of gratitude. Indeed, this is th~ proper feeling to be entertained toward all works of genius ; and an envious or malign criticism upm such is not so much a defect in the intellect as in is a sin of the heart. It is a blow struck in the face of a benefactor. A great author is one who lays a priceless treasure at our door ; and if we at once reject the boon and spurn the giver, ours is not an error simply, it is a deadly crime. The mention of Bunyan and Montgomery in conjunction, irresistibly reminds us of a writer who much resembles the one, and into whom the spirit of the other seems absolutely to have tranami- grated: we mean Mary Howitt. She resembles Montgomery principally in the amiable light in which she presents the spirit of Christianity. Here the Moravian and the Friend are finely at one. Their religion is no dire fatalism, no gloomy reservoir of all morbid and unhappy feelinos di appointed hopes, baffled purposes, despairing pros- pects, turning toward heaven, in their extremity, for comfort, as it is with a very numerous class of authors. It is a glad sunbeam from the womb of the rhorning, kindling all nature and life into smiles. It is a meek, womanlike presence in the chamber of earth, which meanwhile beautifies, and shall yet redeem and restore itby its very gentle- ness righting all its wrongs, curing all its evils, and wiping away all its teats. Had but this faith been shown more fully to the sick soul of Cowper! were it but shown more widely to the sick soul of earth, And when, through the window, looks in on us one full glance of a clear large star, how startlingly it seems, like a conscious, mild, yet piercing eye; how strongly it points, how soothingly it mingles with our meditations, and as with a leash of fire, leads them away into still remoter and more mys- terious regions of thought! Such a meditation Montgomery has embodied. in these beautiful verses; but then liE is tip amid the midnight and all its stars ; he is out amid the Alps, and is catching on his brow the living breath of that rarest inspiration which moves amid them, then and then alone. We mentioned Cowper in conjunction with Montgomery in a former sentence. They resemble each other in the pious purpose and general sim- plicity of their ~vritings, but otherwise are entirely distinct. Cowpers is a didactic, Montgomery s a romantic piety. Cowpers is a gloomy, Mont- gomerys a cheerful religion. Cowper has in him a fierce and bitter vein of satire, often irritating into invective; we finch no traces of any such thing in all Montgomerys writings. Cowpers wither- ing denunciations seem shreds of Elijahs mantle, torn off in the fiery whirlwind. Montgomery is clothed in the softer garments, and breathes the gentler genius rif the new economy. And as poets, Monigorriery, with more imagination and elegance, is entirely destitute of the rugged strength of senti- ment, the exquisite keenness of observation, the rich humor and the awful personal pathos of Cowper. . * * * * * Of Montgomerys prose we might say much that was favorable. It is truly Prose by a Poet, to borrow the title of one of his works. You see the poet every now and then dropping his mask, aud showing his flaming eyes. It is enough (if itself to confute the vulgar prejudice against the prose of poets. Who indeed but a poet has ever written, or can ever write good prose, prose that will live 1 What prose, to take but one example, is comparable to the prose of Shakspearemany of whose very best passages, as Hamlets descrip- tion of man, Falstaffs death, the speech of Brutus, that dreadful grace before meat of Timon, which is of misanthropy the quaintest and most appalling quimitessence, and seems fit to have preceded a And how like is Mary Howitt to Btinyan f supper in Eblis, & c , are not in verse M(int- Like hun, she is the most sublime of the siumple, gomerys prose criticism we value less for its ex- and the most simple of the sublinie; thie most position of principles, or for its originality, in which literal, and the most imaginative, of writers. Hers Soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again. Ot) PROPOSALS FOR A CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE. ~nd his are but a few quiet words: but they have the effect of Open Sesame ; they conduct into deep caverns of feeling and of thought, to open Which ten thousand mediocrists behind are bawling their big-mouthed talk in vain. In Marion s Pilgrimage, (thanks to the kind and gifted young friend who lately introduced us to this beautiful poem,) we have a minor Pilgrims Progress, where Christianity is represented as a child going forth on a mission to earth, mingling with and miti- gating all its evils ; and is left, at the close, still wandering on in this her high calling. The alle- gory is nut, any more than in Bunyan, strictly pre- served for Marion is at once Christianity personi- fied and a Christian person, who alludes to Scrip- ture events, and talks in Scripture language; but the simplicity, the child-likeness, and the sweet- ness, are those of the gentle dreamer of Elstowe. Why does she not more frequently lean down her head upon his inspired pillow? We return to James Montgomery only to hid him farewell. He is one of the few lingering stars in a very rich constellation ot poets. Byron, Cole- ridge, Southey, Crabbe, Campbell, Shelley, Keats, & c., are gone: some burst to shivers by their own impetuous niotion; others, in the course of nature, having simply ceased to shine. Three of that cluster yet remain, in Wordsworth, Moore, and Montgomery. Let us, without absurdly and malignantly denying merit to our rising lumina- ries, (some of whom, such as Browning, Tenny- son, and Baillie, we hope yet to see emulating the very highest of the departed,) with peculiar ten- derness cherish these, both for their own sakes, and as still linking us to a period in our literary history so splendid. From Frasers Magazine. PROPOSALS FOR A CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE. VOLS. II. AND III. Mv DEAR MARQUIS, I may now say (for having ventured to address you once, I feel as if I had grown quite familiar with you)well, then, my lord, to resume the thread of the little discourse broken off last month, do you know that, consider- ing the excellence of the theme I proposed to you, and, perhaps, of my own manner of handling it but that is not fur an author, but a kind British pub- lic to decideI feel quite sorry that I ever let it slip, or allowed myself to compress into a few niagazine pages, matter which might fill many magazinesmany volumesa romance teeming with noble subjects of chivalry and adventure; which might equal in length with tYarissa Hari.owe, and in thrilling dramatic interest the best of our own productions. But the deed is done now. The goose is slaughtered, as it were, that might have laid many golden eggs: let us fall too, since he is dead, and eat him with as much relish as may be. Well, then. In my last, if you remember, I only alluded cursorily to the death of Arthur, duke of Brittany, whose murder by his uncle, King John, is a subject so full of interest, that I am surprised nobody has taken it up. The late Mr. Shakspeare, indeed has touched it; but how slightly, and in how trivial a manner! Why a man knowing the mystery of novel-spinning, might have been whole volumes killing that young prince. His escapes, his hopes, his young loves, his battles, his surprise, his defeat, his lingering agony, and ultimate downfall, might go through a set of chap- ters of interest so thrilling, that they should almost turn your hair gray with excitement and terror. In a rare historical work, with which I have had the good luck to fall in at the Britannic Museum, and written in his early days by the celebrated Sir Hume, Lord of Montrose, and electrifying our chamber of deputies with the thunder of his male and vigorous wordin Sir Humes History of Eng- land I find the following notice of the above- named Prince Arthur and his uncle The young Duke of Brittany, who was now rising to mans estate, now joined the French army, which had begun hostilities against the king of England. He was received with great distinction by Philip; was knighted by him, espoused his daughter Mary, and was invested, not only in the duchy of Brittany, but in the counties of Anjou and Mayne, which he had formerly resigned to his uncle. Every attempt succeeded with the allies. Tillieres and Boutavant were taken by Philip after making a feeble defence. Mortemar and Lyon fell into his hands almost without resistance. The prince next invested Goudmai, and succeeded in making himself master of that important fortress. The progress of the prince was rapid, but an event happened which turned the scales in the favor of John, and gave him a decided superiority over his enemies. Young Arthur, fond of military renown, had broken into Poictou, at the bead of a small army, and passing near Mirahean, he heard that his grandmother, Queen Eleanor, who had always op- posed his interests, was lodged in that place, and was protected by a weak garrison and ruinous forti- fications. He immediately determined to lay siege to the fortress, and make himself master of her per- son. But John, roused from his indolence by so pressing an occasion, collected an army of English and Braban~ons, and advanced to the relief of the queen-mother. He fell on Arthurs camp before that prince was aware of the danger; dispersed his army: took him prisoner together with the most consid3rable of the revolted barons. and returned in triumph to Normandy. The greater part of the prisoners were sent to Normandy, but Arthur was shut up in the castle of Falaise. The king had here a conference with his nephew, represented to him the folly of his preten- sions, and required him to renounce the French alliance. But the brave though imprudent youth, rendered more haughty by misfortunes, maintained the justice of his cause; asserted his claim not only to the French provinces, but to the crown of Eng- land; and in his turn required the king to restore the son of his elder brother to the possession of his inheritance. John, sensible from these symptoms of spirit that the young prince, though now a pris- oner, might hereafter prove a dangerous enemy, de- termined to prevent all future peril by despatching his nephew, and Arthur was never niore heard of. * * * The king, it is said, first proposed to William de Ia Bray, one of his servants, to despatch Arthur: but William replied, that he was a gentle- man, not a hangman; and positively refused com- pliance. Another instrument of murder was found. and was despatched with proper orders to Falaise but Hubert de Bonrg, chamberlain to the king, and constable of the castle, feigning that he himself would execute the kings mandate, sent back the assassin, spread the report that the young prince was dead, and publicly perfornied all the ceremo- nies of his interment. But finding that the Bretons vowed revenge for the murder, and that all the re CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE. 61 volted barons persevered more obstinately in their rebellion, he thought it prudent to reveal the secret, and to inform the world that the Duke of Britanny ~vas still alive. This discovery proved fatal to the young prince. John first removed him to the castle of Rouen, (where he himself was living, passing his time with his young wife in all. sorts of indolence and pleasure,) and coming in the nighttime, ordered Arthur to be brought before him. The young prince, aware of his danger, and now more subdued by the continuance of his misfortunes and the ap- proach of death, threw himself on his knees before his uncle and begged for mercy. But the barbarous tyrant making no reply, stabbed him with his own hands; and, fastening a stone to the dead body, threw it into the Seine. I am sure, my dear lord, you will see that it is not without a purpose that I have quoted the above passage from the recondite work of M. Home. See what a scope it affords to the novelist! and trace one by one the noble scenes which with common skill and perseverance could be depicted. In chapter I. (this I consider vol. ii. of the Ivan- hoe continuation) we have the raising of the stand- ard Ban and Arrier-han; the trooping in of the Bretons; the songs of the Armorican bards; the first interview between Arthur and the Princess Mary of France. The Desdichado is of course the go-between in all these matters of love and politics. Chapter II. Young Arthur is made a belted knight; the watch in the chapel; the blessing of the arms; the young knight sports his spurs at Bout- avant and Tillieres. Fancy the way in which Ivanhoe, Gurth, and Wamba, rescue him on every occasion. Vive Dieu! I see the whole scene, the pride and pomp of chivalrous war represented so clearly, that I could turn off hundreds upon hun- dreds of gallant pages in the description. Chapter III. He hears of his grandmother (that infernal old fiend) at Mirabeau; and nothing will suffice him but posting thither, ventre4~-terre, in order to chastise the old harridan. In vain Ivanhoe remonstrates and says, Reflect, my liege, that t is your grandmother, and that sort of thing. The headstrong prince (whom the old .dy used to whip reesE unmercifully in his youth) will goand to his punishment. The grandmother, I would suggest, should be a most frightful and disgusting old character; and the horror inspired by her vices might be tempered with a strong dash of humor. Comic dialogue might take place across the wall between the be- sieged and the besiegers, and the sarcasms of the old beldam (standing shrieking through a speaking- trumpet on the western donjon) might be made to tell with tremendous effect. I always think it is good to have your broad farce as close as possible to your deep tragedy. In fact, Will Shakspeare himself our Williams, as Jules Janin calls him has made quite a jocular play of this King John, and the monarch himself, in spite of some failings, quite an agreeable, gentlemanhike fellow. Well, while Prince Arthur and his grandmother are parley- ing across the wall and bandying family compli- ments, (which I need not tell you would be pretty bitter between the son of Geoffrey Plantagenet and that disreputable old divorcee of a dowager, Queen Eleanor,) up comes the king with his host and takes the young Arthur prisoner in the midst of the quarrel. The interest of the scene will be redoubled by an interview between King John, the prince, and the old lady, who kindly suggests all sorts of tor- ture for her grandson, and upon his ordering her on her allegiance to kneel down and acknowledge him as her rightful king, snaps her snuffy old fin- gers in his face, and quite does away with the ef- fect of his c/~aleureuse improvisation upon King John himself. This is Chapter V. It ends with special instructions on the dowagers part to tor- ture and do away wit.h young Arthur; and the cortege and the royal prisoner march away to Rou- en, ~vhere Johns young queen is residing with Lady Rowena and a number of English ladies in her court. Chapter VI. A description of the pleasures, masques, and drunken dehaucheries in which the hog of Rouen wallows. King John had his court there, and a description of its pleasures will read with double zest from the contrast of the fate hang- ing over young Arthur. Revelry and champaigne, minstrels and fair ladies, in the first floor; toads chains, racks, and darkness, in the dungeons of the basement. But what call have I to point out to such a master the light and shade of the novelists art ~ By the way, as we are at Ronen, might not the grandmother of Joan of Arc be introduced with good effect Nothing would be more easy than for her to prophesy that France should, ere long, be freed from the dominion of the Anglais; and die or be disposed of afterwards. These prophe- cies, written seven or eight hundred years after- wards,, are always, I need not say, fulfilled most accurately, and give an indescribable air of know- inguess to a writer arid authenticity to a narra- tive. Ivanhoe, Gurth, and Wamba, are, of course, undergoing every variety of disguises and making the most frantic exertions to liberate the interesting young captive. If the death of Arthur do not offer a good theme for Chapter VII., there is no use in writing histori- cal romances at all. Fancy Hubert de Burgh re- lenting, Arthur flattering himself with hopes of an escape. Ivanhoe and his friends in a boat at the water-port of the castle, ready to receive the young prince, for whose flight every arrangement had been made; and in the midst of the breathless in- terest and hurry attendant upon the plot in steps King John and kills his nephew with his own hands! The clocks of the cathedral and St. Onen were tolling twelve. The cafds and theatres were closed. The burghers had retired to their rest, and the city was enveloped in silence and darkness, as the Desdichado, unmooring his shallop from the stairs of the hostelry, which he had selected for his residence by reason of its proximity to the river, paddled off quietly towards the castle. Its black enormous towers loomed gloomily against the mid- night sky; the water moaned and plashed against the huge walls and buttresses which rose up gi- gantic out of the stream, and the stars winked overhead. The banner of England and Normandy floated lazily from the topmost donjon, and, save the sentinel who paced upon his watch there, his armor glinting faintly in the starlight, all seemed asleep in the royal palace. Beauty in her bower, the warrior weary of carouse or battle, the states- man dreaming of chicaneall slumberedno, not all. One red light flared through the bars of one chamber. Wilfrid knew it. It was the chamber where the young prince was held captive. The red light was reflected into the black stream CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE. beneath, and flared and quivered like a flaming sword in the water. The knight, with muffled oars, paddled his little bark stealthily under that casement, and looked every moment for the signal agreed upon, and for the appearance of the ladder of ropes, with which Gurth, disguised as a Carthusian friar, had supplied the prince the day previous. All was ready. Raoul de Frontignac had bribed the keeper of the Paris gate; Bertrand de Cbs Vougeot was won over, and had intoxicated the guard there; the good knights, Alured dA uriol and Philibert de Franco- ni, were in waiting, with spare horses and fifty trusty lances. Lifelibertylovethe crown of England, were awaiting the fair-haired boy, a pris- oner in yonder chamber! One oclock struck, but the signal was not given, and the IDesdichado grew anxious. Shadows passed before the light in the chamber above passed rapidly; he thought he heard a crya scufflea scream! It is the turnkey that they are slaying, thought the bold knight, Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, and pitied the poor varlet whose death was unavoidable. Half past one struck, and a fig- rire came to the window. St. Waltheof be praised! said the knight, inaudibly, as he clung to a cranny in the masonry under the casement, and a~vaited the fall of the expected rope-ladder. By St. Peters teeth, said a voice from the window, the springald had sawed the stanchions of the window, too ! and loosening a bar, he flung it into the river. It passed within an inch of the motionless and terror-stricken Ivanhoe, and sank flashing into the black depths of the Seine. Ivanhoe recognized the harsh and brutal voice; the plot was discovered, and by John of Plantage- net! Another bar followed its iron companion, and was flung into the stream; and the nt~xt mo- ment a mass, as of something in a sack, was brought to the window. The old witch of Domremy, whom we burned yesterday, prophesied that he should escape by this window, cried, with a horrid laughter, the same voice which had thrilled the bosom of Ivanhoe; and by it my fair nephew escapes. Drop him down, good De Burgo; LAISSEZ PASSER LA JUSTICE DU Roy. It was the dead body of Arthur Plantagenet that his true servitor bore to the shore. You, perhaps, do not comprehend what Arthur Plantagenet, has to do with the main story of Ivan- hoe, and Rebecca, and Rowena; but this can be explained in a twinkling, and it will be seen how necessary, as well as agreeable and interesting, such an episode may be considered. Among the ladies-in-waiting upon Johns young queen, we have mentioned as the most correct and distinguished the Lady Rowena of Athelstane, who discharged her duty as mistress of the robes to her august sovereign. When the death of the princely Arthur became known, as it was by the agency of Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, who bore the corpse to Philip Augustus, proclaimed King John of England a traitor and murderer, and nailed his glove of defiance upon his palace-door before he carried away the body of his young victim, such a storm of indignation was raised against the tyrant who had done the deed, ri caused that dastardly spirit to quail with rage and fear. All the courts of Christendom proclaimed jim felon; true knights7 indignant, threw up his ~rvice, and the nobles scornfully quitted hi~ court. It is known what the brute did under these cir cumstances. Furious at the contumely of his sub- jects, he seized hostages wherever he could, and demanded that the eldest sons of the nobility should be brought to his court. Some of these noble dames refused to give up their children to the dastardly butcher and tyrant. Shall I give him my son, my Cedric, said one, that he may slay him like his nephew Ar- thur? This, I need not say, was the Lady Rowena; and now you begin to understand how, in Chapter IX., she naturally comes on the scene again, arid that she is drawing pretty near to the end of her career. The Biographie Universelle says, little knowing that Rowena was the lady in question La femme dun baron au quel on vint faire cette d~mande, r~pondit, Le roi pensc-t-il que je confie- rai mon fils ~ un Itomme qui a ~gorg~ son nevcu de sa propre main? Jean fit enlever la mere et lcn- fant et la laissa MOURIR DE FAIM dons les cachots. I picture to myself, with a painful sympathy, Rowena undergoing this disagreeable sentence. All her virtues, her resolution, her chaste energy, and perseverance, shine with redoubled lustre in this brief Chapter X., in which her sufferings are described; and, for the first time since the com- inencement of the history, I feel that I am partial- ly reconciled to her. While she is languishing in the dungeon of the castle, Philip Augustus is thun- dering revenge at the gates of Ronen. Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, seeking for the blood of the tyrant, is foremost in battle, storm, and scaladoc. ihe cas- tle is carried by his valor. The dastard John flies, after a cowardly resistance, and gives up his fair Duchy of Normandy, that had been held by the princes of his race for three hundred years. As Ivanhoe and his hardy companions rush up the walls, yelling to the recreant king to turn and de- fend himself like a man, the scoundrel flies, and Ivanhoe findswhat 1his ex-wife in the last stage of exhaustion, lying on the straw of Arthurs dungeon, with her little boy in her arms. She has preserved his life at the expense of her own, giv- ing him the whole of the pittance which her gaol- ers allowed her, and perishing herself of inanition. There is a scene! I feel as if I have made it up, as it were, with this lady, and that we l)art in peace in consequence of my providing her with so snlblime a death-bed. Fancy Ivanhoe rescuing her, their recognition, the faint blush upon her worn features, the pathetic way in which she gives little Cedric in charge to him, arid his promibes of protection. Wilfrid, my early loved, slowly gasped she, removing her grey hair from her furrowed temples, and gazing upon her boy fondly as he nestled on Ivanhoes knee, promise me, by St. Waltheof of Templestowepromise me one boon. I do, said Ivanhoe, clasping the boy, and thinking that it was to that little innocent the pro- mise was intended to apply. By St. Waltheofl By St. Waltheof! Promise me that you will never marry a Jewess ! By St. Waltheof! cried Ivanhoe, this is too much! Rowena ! But he felt his hand grasped for a moment, the nerves then relaxed, ~i1~ pale lip ceased to quivershe was dead! And I ask any man, or novelist, whether this is not a satisfactory END OF VOL. II.? CONTINUATION OF flrANHOE. 63 When Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe had restored Ced- donkey, for the same; a sword, half-a-dirhem; a nc to his father, the tipsy thane, Atheistane, horse, five dirhems. Hundreds of thousands & f England had no further charms for him, and a these various sorts of booty were in the possession residence in that island was rendered the less of the triumphant followers of Yakoob-al-Mansoor. agreeable hy the certainty that King John would Curses on his head! But he was a brave warrior, hang him if ever he could lay hands on the and the Christians before him seemed to forget that faithful follower of King Richard and Prince they were the descendants of the brave Cid, the Arthur. Kanbitoor, as the Moorish hounds (in their jargon) But there w as always in those days a home and denominated the famous Campeador. occupation for a brave and pious knight. A saddle A general move for the rescue of the faithful in on a gallant war-horse, a pitched field against the Spaina crusade against the infidels triumphing Moors, a lance wherewith to spit a turbaned infi- there, was preached throughout Europe by all the del, or a road to Paradise carved out by his scime- most eloquent clergy; and thousands and thou- tarthese were the height of the ambition of good sands of valorous knights and nobles, accompanied and religious warriors; and so renowned a chain- by well-meaning varlets and vassals of the lower pion as Sir Wilfnid of Ivanhoe was sure to be well sort, trooped from all sides to the rescue. The received wherever blows were stricken for the straits of Gibel-al-tarig at which spot the Moor, cause of Christendom. Even among the dark pasaing from Barbary, first planted his accursed Templars, he who had twice overcome the most foot on the Christian soil, were crowded with the famous lance of their order was a respected though galleys of the Templars and the Knights of St. not a welcome guest; but among the opposition John, who flung succors into the menaced king- company of the Knights of St. John he was ad- doms of the Peninsula; the inland sea swarmed mired and courted beyond measure ; and always with their ships hasting from their forts and affectioning that order, whieb offered him, indeed, islands, from Rhodes and Byzantium, from Jaffa its first rank and commanderies, he did much good and Askalon. The Pyrenean peaks beheld the service, fighting in their ranks for the glory of pennons and glittered with the armor of the knights Heaven and St. Waltheof, and slew many thou- marching Out of France into Spain ; the Btit sands of the heathen in Prussia, Poland, and those it is manifest that if we go on giving a full deserip- savage northern countries. The only fault that tion in the best manner of historical novels, this the great and gallant though severe and ascetic Magazine will never be able to contain the last Folko of Heydeubratent, the chief of the order of volume of Ivanhoe, whereof I think you begin to St. John, found with the melancholy warrior, perceive what is the nature of the conclusion. Sup- whose lance did stich good service to the cross, pose Ivanhoe has taken shipping in Germany was, that he did not persecute the Jews as so from Bohemia sayand has landed safely in Va-. religious a knight should. He let off sundry cap- lencia, like a good Christian knight, and is busy in tives of that persuasion whom he had taken with robbing, killing, and pillaging the Moors there, the his sword and his spear, saved others from torture, deuce is in it, if, with historical disquisitions and and actually ransomed the two last grinders of a picturesque descriptions, we may not get through venerable rabbi, (that Roger de Cartright, an Eng- half a volume, leaving but one half more for the lish knight of the order, was about to extort from main business of the whole romance. the elderly Israelite,) with a hundred crowns and * * * * * a gimmal ring, which were all the property he The escalade successful, and the Moorish garri- possessed. Whenever he so ransomed or benefited son of Xixona put to the sword, the good knight, one of this religion, he would moreover give them Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, took no further part in the a little token or a message, (were the good knight proceedings of the conquerors of that ill-fatad out of money,) saying, Take this token, and re- place. A scene of horrible massacre and frightful member this deed was done by Wilfrid the Disin- reprisals ensued, and the Christian warriors, hot herited, for the services whilome rendered to him with victory and flushed with slaughter, were, it is by Rebecca, the daughter of Isaac of York !) So to be feared, as savage in their hour of triumph -as among themselves, and in their meetings and syna- ever their heathen enemies had been. Among the gogues, and in their restless travels from land to most violent and least scrupulous was the ferocious land, when they of Jewry cursed and reviled all knight of Saint Jago, Don Beltran de Cuchilla y Christians, as such abominable heathens will, they Trabuco y Espada y Espelon; raging throLigh the nevertheless excepted the name of the Deadichado, vanquished city like a demon, he slaughtered indis- or the doubly-disinherited as he now was, the Des- criminatel y all those infidels of both sexes whose dichado-Doblado. wealth did not tempt him to a ransom, or whose While he was thus makino war against the beauty did not reserve them for more frightful northern infidels, news was carried all over Chris- calamities than death. The slaughter over1 Don tendom of a catastrophe which had befallen the Beltran took up his quarters in the Albaycen, good cause in the south of Europe. where the where the Alfaqui had lived who had so narrowly Spanish Christians had met with such a defeat ~nd escaped the sword of Ivanhoe; but the wealth, the massacre at the hands of the Moors, as had never treasure, the slaves, and the family of the fugitive been known in the proudest days of Saladin. chieftain, were left in possession of the conqueror Thursday, the 9th of Shaban, in the 605th year of Xixona. Among the treasures Don Beltran of the Hejira, is known all over the West as the recognized with a savage joy the coat-armors and amun-al-ark, the year of the battle of Alarcos, ornaments of many brave and unfortunate corn- gained over the Christians by the Moslems of An- panions-in-arms ~vho had fallen in the fatal battle dalus, on which fatal day Christendom suffered a of Alarcos. The sight of those bloody relics added defeat so signal, that it was feared the Spanish fury to his cruel disposition, and served to steel a Peninsula would be entirely wrested away from the heart already but liti dominion of the cross. On that day the Franks mercy. - le disposed to sentiments of lost 150,000 men and 30,000 prisoners. A man- Three days after the saek and plerider of the slave sold anmug the unbelievers for a dirhem; a place Don Beltran was seated in the hall-cour 64 CONTINUATION OF IVANHOE. lately occupied by the proud Alfaqui, lying in his heathenism! Hast heard the name of Beltran de divan, dressed in his rich robes, the fountains play- Espada y Trabuco l ing in the centre, the slaves of the Moor minister- There were three brothers of that name at ing to his scarred and rugged Christian conqueror. Alarcos, and my brothers slew the Christian Some fanned him with peacocks pinions, some dogs ! said the proud young girl, looking boldly danced before him, some sang Moors melodies to at Don Beltran, who foamed with rage. the plaintive notes of a guzia, oneit was the only The Moors butchered my mother and her little daughter of the Moors old age, the young Zutulbe, ones at midnight, in our castle of Murcia, Beltran a rosebud of beautysat weeping in a corner of said. the gilded hall, weeping for her slain brethren, the Thy father fled like a craven, as thou didst, pride of Moslem chivalry, whose heads were black- Don Beltran ! cried the high-spirited girl. ening in the blazing sunshine on the portals with- By Saint Jago, this is too much ! screamed out, and for her father, whose home had been thus the infuriated nobleman; and the next moment made desolate. there was a shriek, and the maiden fell to the He and his guest, the English knight Sir Wil- ground with Don Beltrans dagger in her side. frid, were playing at chess, a favorite amusement Death is better than dishonor ! cried the with the chivalry of the period, when a messenger child, rolling on the blood-stained marble pave- was announced from Yalencia, to treat, if possible, ment. 1I spit upon thee, dog of a Christian ! for the ransom of the remaining part of the Alfa- and with this, and with a savage laugh, she fell quis family. A grim smile lighted up Don Bel- back and died. trans features as he bade the black slave admit the Bear back this news, Jew, to the Alfaqui, messenger. lie entered. By his costume it was howled the Don, spurning the beauteous corpse at once seen that the bearer of the flag of truce with his foot. I would not have ransomed her was a Jewthe people were employed continually for all the gold in Barbary ! And shuddering, then as ambassadors between the two races at war the old Jew left the apartment, which Ivanhoe in Spain. quitted likewise. I come, said the old Jew, (in a voice which When they were in the outer court, the knight made Sir Wilfrid start,) from my lord the Alfaqui said to the Jew, ISAAC OF YORK, dost thou not to my noble sefior, the invincible Don Beltran de know me P and threw back his hood, and looked Cuchilla, to treat for the ransom of the Moors at the old man. only daughter, the child of his old age and the The old Jew stared wildly, rushed forward, as pearl of his affection. if to seize his hand, then started back, trembling A pearl is a valuable jewel, Hebrew. What convulsively, and clutching his withered hands does the Moorish dog bid for her l asked Don over his face, said, with a burst of grief, Sir Beltran, still smiling grimly. Wilfrid of Ivanhoe !no, no !I do not know The Alfaqui offers 100,000 dinars, twenty- thee ! four horses with their caparisons, twenty-four suits Holy mother! what has chanced l said Ivan- of plate-armor, and diamonds and rubies to the hoe, in his turn becoming ghastly pale; where amount of 100,000 dinars. is thy daughterwhere is IRebecca? Ho, slaves! roared Don Beltran, show the Away from me ! said the old Jew, tottering, Jew my treasury of gold. How many hundred away! REBEccA ISDEAD thousand pieces are there l And ten enormous * * * * * chests were produced in which the accountant When the disinherited knight heard that fatal counted 1000 bags of 1000 derhems each, and die- announcement, he fell to the ground senseless, and played several caskets of jewels containing such a was for some days as one perfectly distraught with treasure of rubies, smaragds, diamonds, and grief. He took no nourishment and uttered no jacinths, as made the eyes of the aged ambassador word. For weeks he did not relapse out of his twinkle with avarice, moody silence, and when he came partially to him- How many horses are there in m~ stable l self again, it was to bid his people to hurse, in a continued Don Beltran; and Muby, the master of hollow voice, and to make a foray against the the horse, numbered three hundred fully capari- Moors. Day after day he issued out against these soned; and there was, likewise, armor of the infidels, and did nought bnt slay and slay. He richest sort for as many cavaliers, who followed took no plunder as other knights did, but left that the banner of this doughty captain. to his followers; he uttered no war-cry, as was I want neither money nor armor, said the the manner of chivalry, and he gave no quarter, in- ferocious knight; tell this to the Alfaqui, Jew. somuch that the silent knight became the dread And I will keep the child, his daughter, to serve of all the Paynims of Granada and Andalusia, and the messes for my dogs, and clean the platters for more fell by his lance than by that of any the my scullions. most clamorous captain of a troop in arms against Deprive not the old man of his child, here them. interposed the knight of Ivanhoe; bethink thee, * * * * * brave Don Beltran, she is but an infant in We must now turn to Valencia, which had been years. conquered by the Moors from the descendants of She is my captive, Sir Knight, replied the the Cid, and of which, as space is valuable, we surly Don Beltran; I will do with my own as will omit all antiquarian description. The ensuing becomes me. chapter may be flavored with this, ~ discretion, as Take 200,000 dirherns! cried the Jew; the cookery-books say; but the fact is, we have more !anything! The Alfaqui will give his metal more attractive in Valencia, where Rebecca ~ife for his child ! is no more dead than you and I; on the contrary, Come hither, Zutulbe !come hither, thou she is more beautiful than ever, and more melan- liloorish pearl ! yelled the feiocious warrior; choly too. The dear creature! her lot in life was ! comae closer, my pretty black-eyed houri of sadness, and yet I feel quite glad again as (in PAPERS ON LITERATURE AND ART. 65 imagination) I catch a glimpse once more of her course, for Rowenas promise extorted from him sweet noble face. was, that he would never wed a Jewess. Married What had caused old Isaac to start so, and tell I am sore they were, and adopted little Cedric, such an abominable fib to Ivanhoe about his daugh- whose father had drunk away all his fortune; but ter l The fact is, that she had turned Christian. Now I dont think they had any other children, or were ihat she was among her own people, and never subsequently very boisterously happy. Of some thought to see her dear champion more, the poor sorts of happiness melancholy is a characteristic, girl declared her convictions, and owned that she and I think these were a solemn pair, and died was of the religion of Ivanhoe. rather early. I propose to make a grand scene of this an- Ah lheureux temps que celni de ces fables! * * nouncemeot. Some young men of her people are Le raisonner aujourdhui saccr6dit6, proposed to her for husbands. She scorns Ben On court, h6las! apr~s Ia v6rit6 Moses; she dismisses Ben Houndsditch; she turns Ah croyez moi lerreur a son merite. away with loathing from Ben Minories; and when pressed by her father and friends in a solemn con- With which remarks from Voltaire vocation, declares herself a convert. Fancy the I have the honor to be, yelling of the Rabbins, the rage of her father, the M. the Marquis most devoted admirer, fury of the old female Hebrews, and the general M. A. TITMAaSH scandal of Jewry. She is persecuted ; but does she yield I Not a jot. When did such a true [WE cOpy from the New York Tribune the followiag notice of a work which deserves all that is here said of heart. yield to persecution She has received nutn- it The Reviews which Miss Fuller contrihuted to that bers of the messages which Wilfrid has sent by the Jews ha relieved; has heard in many quarters of paper were marked with a star; and we have often his prowess and virtue; cherishes one of the tokens admired not only their great merit, hut the rapidity with which he sent, and ~vbich young Bevis Marks, the which they were produced.] Prussian Israelite, bad brought, (to be sure the Papers on Literature and Art: By S. MARGARET stone in the ring turned out to be glass, and was FULLER. Parts I., II. (pp. 164, 183, l2mo.) not worth twopence halfpenny;) bitt she loves this Wiley & Putnams Library of American Books, glass ring more than her fathers best diamonds; Nos. 19, 20. and I do not choose to describe how long she has THE simple statement that a selection of Marga- wept over it, and kissed it, and worn it. ret Fullers writings has been submitted to the She was consigned to bread and water in a back public, is perhaps all that is appropriate in these room of the Ghetto of Yalencia; and this is why columns. Their author is so widely known as long her father took such a dislike to Ivanhoe, and an- presiding over the literary department of Ihe Tn- nounced the death of his daughter. hone, as is also the fact that, though at present in If it is wished to spin out the novel, what is Europe, her connection with this journal is Un- easier ihan to cause Abon-Abdallab-Mohammed, broken, but will be maintained through a series of who succeeded his gallant father, Jakoob-Alman- letters from the Old World, that to speak of her soor, as I read in the Arabian history of El and of these volumes as we think they merit might Makary, to fall in love with the Jewish maid, arid be plausibly regarded as indirect commendation of propose to make her the first of his wives but this our own columns. A few words with regard to I leave to your own better judgment. Meanwhile, some of her prominent characteristics are all we it is clear that events are drawing to their conclu- shall proffer. sion. The same historian recounts how at the Marked individuality, true independence, we famous battle of Al Ahab, called by the Spaniards reckon first among these. Sympathizing freely las Navas, the Christians retrieved their defeat at with all lofty and generous aims, Miss Fuller be- Alarcos; aud killed absolutely half a million of longs to no sect, to no party, to no school in litera- Mahorumedans. Two hundred and fifty thousand ture or philanthropic effort. You rarely perceive, of these, of course Don Wilfrid took to his own from her writings themselves, that it is a woman lance; and became rather easier in spirits after who speaks to you, though, if reminded of the cir- that famous feat of arms. Soon after that King cumstance, you find nothing inconsistent therewith. Don Jayme of Aragon laid siege to Valencia; and You meet no especial display of delicacy or senu- now I think all things are pretty clear. ment, but the lucid and vigorous outpouring of a Wh.o is the first on the wall, and who hurls clear, cultivated, lofty human intellect, enriched by down the green standard of the Prophet l Who a thoughtful observation of life and the amplest chops off the head of the Emir Abou-Whatdyecal- acquaintance with literature. Each sentence em- 1cm Who, attracted to the Jewish quarter by the bodies an idea, which has not been entrusted to shrieks of the inhabitants, who are being butchered paper until maturely considered and deemed fit to by the Spanish soldiery, passes over a threshold stand as its own apology. The occasional blem- (where he finds old Isaac of York, 6gorgA on the ishes or obscurities of style are recognized as pro- threshold by the way,) and into the back-kitchen, ceeding from anything else than haste or inatten- where for many years in solitary confinement has tionperhaps rather from an undue attention to pined Rebeccawho but Ivanhoe I I shall not de- the thought, which is so vividly present to the scribe that scene of recognition, though I declare I writers mind that the possibility of the words em- am quite affected as I think of it, and have thought ployed failing to convey it exactly to the reader of it any time these five-and-twenty yearsever does not suggest itself. We think few men are, since as a boy at school I commenced the noble we are sure no woman now in America is, so well study of novelsever since when, lying on sunny calculated to discharge worthily and usefully the slopes of half-holydays, the fair chivalrous figures duties of a critic as she. The extent of her and beautiful shapes of knights and ladies were acquaintance with literature, especially that of visible to meever since I grew to love Rebecca, modern continental Europe, the habit of indepen- that sweetest creature of the poetic world, and dent investigation and untrammeled judgment, give longed to see her righted, to her critical essays a value which can hardly he That she and Ivanhoe were married follows of overestimated. 66 THE DISPONENT. THE DISPONENT. ChAPTER 1. N the common style of colloquial intercourse to be met with in what is usually denominated general & )cietynamely, that periodical collision of a jium- ber of persons, of which a large majority repeat what they hear, and a small minority think what they say, and those by no means all think rightly-- it naturally follows that the emptiest sophistries will pass current equally as well as the profoundest truthsnay, generally much better ; as, like all meretricious imitations, they are most calculated to please common eyes at first sight. A favorite futility which, as such, has doubtless never been out of vogue at any time, but which from the pecu- liar character of the age enters largely into the small-talk of respectable people of the present day, consists in extolling the simplicity which accompa- iiies a state of nature, and lamenting the refine- ments which follow in the train of civilization. Implying by the first, that fabulous purity, when wild in the woods the noble savage ran ; and by the second, those perverted luxuries to which a false cultivation has given birth ; and thus contriv- ing to give in one breath a wrong idea to a right definition, and a wrong definition to a right idea. The simplicity of savage life! God help the poor creatures! Where is there the most perverted rtificiality of the falsest and foulest civilization that can for one instant be compared with it l If there be a state of society where it seems to have become natural to man to outrage Nature; if there be a scene on which the angels of heaven must gaze with tears (if pityif so keen a pang as that of a helpless sympathy be permitted to mingle with their bliss ;it is when the brute force and the brute will of uncivilixed man are left to riot without controlwhen not his nature, but its cor- ruption, is the law of his life. Even in those countries where the lowest orders of peasantry are nominally civilized, because nomi- nally Christianized, but where want, oppression, and ignorance leave theni but a degree better than the savage, the same facts support the same argu- ments. The simplest comforts, within every ones reach, are the last they care forthe natural affec- tions within every heart, the last they indulge their habits are senselesstheir social relations artificialtheir very costume frequently studiously inconvenientthe simple dictates of the law of Nature, in short, the last to which they resort. When people, therefore, talk of the simplicity of Nature and the refinements of civilization as anti- thetical qualities, they are only idly repeating what has been but idle repetition ever since people have talked at all. In point of fact, these are synony- mous things; that difference only existing which must ever exist between a divine idea aiid a human reality. If the much-to-be-desired simplicity of a state of nature be not among us, or rarely so,~ it is because we are too little refined and civilized, and not t(io much. For it is only in the paths of Christian wisdom, goodness, knowledge and sense, that such a state can be attained; and such real and only civilization is mans real and only nature. Is it not a mystery, for instance, that in those parts of the world where man is nursed on pover- tys hardest fare, and bred among natures roughest scenes, the choice of a wife, instead of being the voluntary act of the natural feelings of the heart, should be conducted upon a system only to be com- pared in manner with the regular manage de conve nance of the most artificial nation in the world, and in motives with the mercenary heartlessness of the vitiated worldling of any time or country? Yet this is the case in many countries that might be mentioned, the North American Indians included, and especially in the German provinces of Russia, wrested from Sweden during the last century, where the scene of our narrative lies ;marriages here being contracted through the intervention of a third person, and frequently without the parties having once metor where previous acquaintance does exist, simply because that circumstance has afforded the gentleman the opportunity of judging of the ladys capacity for labor, or of ascertaining the amount of her dowry. The usual form on these occasions is for the young man to engage the services of an old wo- man, who usually officiates for a whole parish in succession, to propose to the girl of whose qualifi- cations he has heard the requisite report. The old woman sets about her buriness very cleverly dwells on the good looks or fine disposition of her client, and especially on the vehemence of his at- tachmentfor even a savage knows the sort of flattery most acceptable to a womans heart. If she succeed in ohtainiiig a favorable answer, the parties meet, frequently for the first time in their lives, the following Sunday at the clergymans house, for the ceremony of betrothal; if not, the old woman is sent to a succession of ladies on a similar errand until she doesfor when once a Livonian peasant has made up his mind to be mar- ried, he thinks the sooner he gets it over the bet- ter. It was a fine morning in the month of March. the earth lay deep in her case of snow, but the sun was bright and early on its road, and, in spite of the Winter landscape, there was a feeling of spriiig in the earliness of dawn ; that feeling, indeed, which is most trying to the southern-bornforeigncr, as reminding you of what other countries are al- ready enjoying, and which here is still long to be the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. With the clergymen of these remote regions the Sunday is always, independent of its religious duties, a day of much occupation; for the peasants, of which their congregations are solely composed, and who frequently come from great distances, take the opportunity, either before or after the ser- vices, for consulting their pastor on such matters wherein his advice or assistance can be of use, and these are not a few. The worthy pastor of this district was already up and preparing for the duties of the day% when he was summoned into the little room set aside for the registeral business of his officeno sinecure beneath the jealous fancies of the Russian govern- mentand where he always received his humble visitors. He was a good man, and very popular with his peasantry, who, if their pastor be not their frieiid, rarely know any other; and to whose spir- itual, worldly, arid bodily ailments he was in the habit of administering as far as lay in his power; to the first, as well as any Christian dignitary in the world; and to the two latter, as far as very slender means and homely knowledge permitted. On this occasion, however, his help was required in another way; for on entering the room he fiwnd a couple awaiting that ceremony of betrothal which in these remote districts is still the relic of a faith of richer poetry amidst the poverty of Lutheranisre. The pastor was a theorist in the way of physiog- nomical expression, and had had so much opportn THE DISPONF~NT. 67 nity for study in the raw and rough countenances rently of his words~ But this appeal was more of his poor parishioners, that he fancied he knew violently resisted than any other; and she looked riot only what a countenance said, but what it con- as if she would have spoken aloud, when, observ- cealed as ~ve11. In this latter respect they gave ing the ministers eye was upon her, down went him perhaps the most opportunity for observation, the head again, and she stood immovable. for many a poor peasant stood abjectly before him The man, who stood firm at the girls side, was with that stolid vacuity of expression in which it re- anything but a match for her in appearance. He quired a nice eye to pronounce between the crust was a coarse ugly fellow, of above forty years of of habit and the kernel of nature. In such occa- age, with reddish hair, watery eyes, and a large sions as this too he was doubly interested to exam- mouth. His face was bluff and full; but whether me; for the ceremony of betrothal, although not it was very open or very impudent, very honest or binding in law, has been made by long custom as very much the reverse, the pastor could not deter- much so in feeling as that of. marriage which fol- mine. He was evidently rather above the condition lows it. , of a peasant; wore his hair short, and his clothes In the present instance there was much to occu- of the common coat and waistcoat cut. He was py him in the party, which consisted of three per- very much at his ease, and seemingly well pleased sonsa young girl, a middle-aged man, and an old ~vith his bride; from whom, however, he never got manand the pastor looked with an earnest and so much as a look. scrutinizing glance from the one to the other, as The clergyman now addressed a few questions the girl and the old man came forward in turn, to each, as is usual on such occasions, relating to kissed his hand, and then made that painfully hum- their knowledge of the fundamental doctrines of ble, yet not ungraceful inclination of the body, ac- Christianity. The man answered with tolerable companied by a supplicatory action with the hands, readiness and accuracy; but the young lady was which is the national obeisance of the people. not very audible in her replies, and her confusion rrhere is much in the habits of obeisance and increased so much, that, knowing she had passed salutation among the lower orders of a country, through the rite of confirmation but a year before, which tells you either the form of religion or the the pastor thought it would he charity to shorten mode of governmenthere it seemed no less to this part of the ceremony. He therefore pro- deprecate tyranny and injustice than to testify re- ceeded at once to an exhortation upon the duties spect. This done, both the parties stood stock and obligations of married lifegiven with much still, and the middle-aged man, or the bridegroom, feeling and good sense, but combined with partien- for such he was, having merely made a servile lars which, to a stranger, might have appeared bow, stepped up to the girls side. She was pret- ludicrous. He reminded the man that he did not ty, and very young; hard and vacant labor had not take a wife only for the convenience of having his yet furrowed her forehead, nor exposure to the air clothes mended, nor the woman a husband only for embrowned her skin; her hair too, which, as with the privilege of wearing a matrons cap ; that the all the inhabitants of these regions, man and woman wedding feasting would be soon over, and the wed- alike, was allowed to grow its full length, was ding presents soon spent; that there would be bright-colored and glossy, and fell in pretty waves much need for hard labor, and little time for idle upon her shoulders, and not too much over her pleasure; but that honest labor would be their face while the little hollow circle of pasteboard, pleasure, if there were love and harmony beneath which the maidens of this part of the province their roof. That it was to be their high privilege wear fastened on the crown of the head, accorded to help one another in the burthens of this life, and gracefully with the round and flowing lines of her their higher privilege still to encourage one another young face, and was easily imagined to represent a on the road to a better one. And besides this, and bridal chaplet for the occasion. The figure too, similar admonitions which they could understand, which was enclosed in the tight~fitting short-waisted he added as much that they could notknowing spenser of coarse grey homespun cloth, was slight, from experience that this would probably leave the easy, and round. The gay striped petticoat hung deeper impression of the two. slimly down, aed altogether, with the bent head He then asked the man, Ian, whether ho was and downcast eye, there could be no prettier picture willing to be betrothed to this girl, Anno, and of a northern maiden on her betrothal day. So whether he was able to maintain her in comfort; far, all ~vas in character with the occasion; yet to the first of which questions he received an im- there was something also too foreign to it to be mediate affirmative; and, to the other, the informa- overlooked. The pastor was accustomed to all tion that he was Disponent or Bailiff upon a neigh- kinds of manner, from the most incomprehensible boring estate, which indeed he already knew, and apathy to the most awkward sheepishness; but in which was in itself sufficient guaranty for the that of the young girl there was something distinct comforts of Annos future establishment. from either. Her hands, which partook of the The pastor therefore turned to the girl with a general delicacy of her whole appearance, were much diminished sense of the disparity between her nervously restless; and, when she looked up for a tender youth and the bridegrooms coarse maturity. moment, she showed an expression of bewilder- ft was true, the report of the peasants did not ment neither natural to her age nor to the occasion, speak very favorably of the latter; but in a coun- Then she exchanged a few petulent whispers with try where the general character of the people is the old man behind her, evidently her father, with phlegmatic and inert, and the general standard of far more hurry of manner than usually ruffles the maintenance too often only a degree above starva- dull surface of a Livonian womans soulin which tion, he knew that the preferences of the heart expostulation seemed the character on one side, and could have little chance against the creature-corn- pacification on the other. Behind them, on a chair, forts of a somewhat lower region. Noj, in spite lay a gay piece of chintz, some red beads, and of the words hardly cool from his lips, and a little other articles of womans finery, which the bride- warm stock of poetry close at his heart, could he groom brings on such occasions, and to which the altogether condemn this mode of reasoning. So old man pointed once or twice in furtherance appa- I he reached our his hand to one side of his table for 68 T~IE DISPONENT. a piece of paper, and began writing the short form of betrothal to which they were to put their names or marks. Then looking up for a moment with a kind expanding countenance, Well, Anno! are you willing to have this man ? ai.d continuing to write, I am glad you are to have a comfortable home mind you keep it clean and tidyI II come and see you. I know you have been a good daughter, so I hope you 11 make a good wife: are you will- ing to marry Ian ? No answer came; and the old gentleman having finished writing his formula, looked up now in expectation. The poor girls hands were pinched together, colorless and blue and her face was crimson, at least so much of it as could be seen, which was only the forehead and the division of the hair, from which a few slender strands hung straight down at right angles from the face. As the pastor looked up more inquir- ingly stilldown went the head lower and lower the whole hair fell over her as a veil, and the next moment face and hair and all were buried in her hands, and she burst out crying. The old father now came forward coaxingly, and whispered into her ear: she took no notice. The bridegroom took one of her hands to pull it from her face; she elbowed him violently away, and seemed from her excited action as if she could gladly have struck him. Iii, LiPolli i~i~htige? Nothing at all, said the old man she is frightened. Women are silly, said the bridegroomsuch forms of speech being quite consistent in Livonia with the most ardent passion give me the paper to sign. No, no, said the clergyman, if you please, 1 11 hear more about this first. Come with me, Anno; there is nothing to be afraid of: and he took the girl by the hand, who followed with choking sobs and heaving shoulders into the next room. Here the mystery was soon solved ; and through tears, and blushes, and hesitations, the pastor was made to understand that Jan might be a very good man, she dare say he was, but that he was not the man she had expected to be betrothed toand this made all the difference to herindeedindeed it didand she asseverated it with the utmost ear- nestness, as if fearing the pastor might not believe her. The old man smiled in his sleeve, but asked her in a serious tone why she had not said this at cHAPTER ii. first, as it was committing a great fault to stand up TnE hour for morning service was now ap- and be betrothed to a man she did not wish for. proaching. The church, which stood within a few Anno assented mutely, and the hair fell down yards of the Pastorat, was a great ugly building, again. Then with a slight degree of embarrass- built only for the use of worship, and not for its ment, for the affaires de cceur of his poor parishion- symbol, and down the one trodden tract, which ers were qtiite a new field to him, he gently ques- looked like a deep furrow in the monotonous field tioned her how the mistake came about; and of snow around, came pouring the congregation in inquired finally as to the real Simon Pure of her irregular procession. The little rude sledges affections. I he answer was simple enough. She drawn by small shaggy horses, and holding some- had seen a young peasant several times at church, times a whole family party, sometimes only one whom she had taken, she knew not why, for the indolent man, glided swiftly along, passing whole Disponent of Essmneggi, and when the old mother rows of pedestrians, chiefly women and girls, who came with an offer of marriage from the actual paced nimbly and lightly one after the other in per- Disponent himself, she had immediately agreed to feet silence. The men were mostly clad in sheep- his proposal of betrothal on the following Sunday. skinsthe wool insidetheir own wool lying on That she had never seen this Ian before; or rather, their shoulders in various states of entanglement; she had never looked at him; and when she did some in heavy strands, others with every hair look at hitn this morning, she thought she should standing on end with the frost, but all lo6king very have died! warm and very picturesque, as most dirty things The pastor was both amused and touched at this do! The women were amore striking. The high, narrative. He was accustomed to see the gentle- stiff, helmet-like caps they wore on their heads ness of the Lettish women crushed in~to apathy, or were covered with ample folds of white linen, their quickness sharpened into cunning, and such which passed in a low bandage over the forehead, an outbreak of genuine feeling was quite refreshing to him. He left Anno where she was, and re- turned alone into the little room. His blood was up to think that two men, one her father and the other old enough to be so, should combine to take advantage of a poor girls mistake. Both were standing as he left themthe Disponeni looking bold and undisconcerted, the old maim cringing and shamefaced. lIe addressed this latter first, and not in gentle tones nor terms You old rascal ! he said, to sell your little daughter for a few sacks of meal and tubs of Strdrnlin. Is that the way to heaven? and you about to leave this earth ! You should be ashamed of yourself: go home and work for her, and be glad this sin is off your grey headit will be time enough for her to marry five years hence ! The old man looked the type of ineffable sheep- ishness; he whined out sortiething about the Dis- ponents having come a long way on purposeand the pastor being all ready ; and about women having long hair, but short thoughtsa favorite proverb with the lords of the creation in this part of the worldand other silly excuses, which were suddenly silenced by an emphatic Hold your tonaue. Then turning to the Disponent, the pastor said, And you tooyou great selfish fellow, to care to profit by what was never intended for you! What blessing could you expect? Co and get a wife honestly, if one will have you; but dont come to me to help you to entrap a girl who likes somebody else better ! As he said this he looked full at the man, and from that moment had no further doubt of his real expression. The slightest change had converted the countenance from one of the most specious honesty into that of the most hardened effrontery, and the good pastor immediately wromight out a little theory as he observed how close was the con- nection between the two. The Disponent was a hardened brute, and that of time worst sortone that could conceal his passions; for he answered not a worddeliberately strode up to the chair to reclaim his bridal gifts, swept up the fimmery under his arm, threw a look of malice at the bystanders, and left the room. TIlE DISPONENT. and in graceful oval lines down the cheeks, till, with their brown woollen upper garments, some- thing like a short pelisse, covering all the gay striped petticoats underneath, they might have passed for some humble religious order. Though many had come a considerable distance, yet the keen clear air had braced their steps and colored their cheeks, and the groups wore that certain Sunday-look of freshness and peace so grateful to the mind both in reality and association. When the sledges had discharged their loads at the church gate, the next business was to stow them in some way near it, and soon they stood, packed together, as closely as the carriages may he seen at the height of the season before some fishionably attended morning concert; the vehicles differing not more than the object they were assembled for. Many of the o~vners left their sledges to the discretion of their horses, and the little animals drew close together, and some of them rubbed noses most affectionately, ~vhile others sneered and tried to bite, in a manner very much the reverse. Meanwhile, most of the women and children had entered fhe church, the men remaining in groups, talking in their babbling monotonous tones. Soon it was apparent that some new and very piquant anecdote was going the round of the assemblage, and knowing looks were given, and white teeth shown from ear to ear, and witty things saidand all particularly pointed at a young peasant, con- spicuous for his fine figure and face, who seemed not to take them particularly amiss. But now the pastor, in his rusty black Geneva robe, was seen emerging from his house, passed through them with many a kind look and word, and the congre- gation thronged into church. Anno was already at her place, her betrothal garments covered up with the customary brown robe, and looking now very much like all the other girls around her, only that she ~vas far prettier, and even prettier to-day than usual. Full in front of her stood that same young peasant, erect and broad- shouldered; and though Anno was so attentive to the service that no one in the church ever saw her lift her head from her hymn-book, yet somehow she managed to ascertain that her vis4t-vis was in full possession of the events of the morning, and no little satisfied with the share he had taken in them. How it had all got out we do not pretend to say, but the pastors kitchen was the very centre of gossip, and the good old gentleman himself not over-discreet. We need hardly say that this was the Disponents successftd rival, and nohody who had once seen him could wonder or regret that he was so. Mart Addafer, though surnames are superfluous in Lettish peasant life, was truly a fine creature. He had as handsome a person and as generous a soul as ever caught the eye and won the heart of woman. He was so different from his poor, low- minded, dull fellow-peasants, that it seemed unfair to both to place him among them. But the differ- ence was not of a kind to unfit him either for his country or his countrymen. He had only all the happier qualities of the Livonian nature in a high- er degreenone that were foreign to it. He was neither sharp, nor quick, nor ambitious: but he had the sound moral feeling, the plain strong sense, the nohle patient courage, and the sweet gentle teili- per, which, even under the cruellest want and op- pression, are never quite obliterated from a Livon- ian breast. The same r-iight be said of his person. He was just the type of the national good looks; his figure unstunted by misery, and his face unde- based by intemperance. He had the fresh ruddy complexion, the brown curling hair, the open brow, the clear blue eye, and then such a beautiful set of teeth as might alone have undertaken to redeem the ugliest countenance, and which the lightest heart and the sunniest temper were always showing. Altogether Mart was one of those happily constitu- ted beings whom it is refreshing to meet with in any rank, not because they are so much better than their fellows, but because their excellence seems to be more spontaneous, starring, as it were, straight from the heart-roots of their own nature, withut any intervening foundation of error, struggle, suf- fering, or discipline. Such as he was day by day and year by year, he seemed to have been created goodness his nature, labor his pleasure, and life his enjoyment. Mart was truly simple. It would indeed have been a pity had anything come between Mart and Anno. She was not his equal in mind or sense, indeed she was still too young to know what she was; but she was true- hearted, affectionate, and industrious, and the mis- take that had discovered her preference evidently gave too munch pleasure to Mart for any one to doubt of his. Before he left the churchyard he received many a sly intimation that the same old mother could easily be induced to carry another message to the same house, only taking due care that there should be no further mistake, and also many a grave warning not to have anything to do with a girl who might be pretty, but whose father was poor and idle, and who could only give her the clothes on her back, and not the usual stock of those. But Mart went his own way, be wanted rio old hag to invent for him what ~vas not true, or to mystify what was; he did not care a straw whether Anno had the usual outfit of clo,hes, or whether she had any at all, but he strode away at the utmost speed of his active limbs, overtook the old man and his daughter before they had gone a werst on their road, and, ere they separated, had in every way rectified and repaired the Inistake of the morning. Mart had no one to oppose his choicehe stood almost alone in the worldhe had never had brothers nor sistersboth his parents were recently dead, and only an old grandmother remained, who lived with him, and whom he supported with great respect and tenderness. His father had been, like old Tonno, Aminos father. poor and idle, but also, like Tonno and many others in this part of the world, idle chiefly because he was poorbecause he had seen himself gradually go down in the world under a set of hard laws and a perpetual change of masters, in spite of his best efforts to re- cover himself, and because after a while he had lost both heart and strength to renew them. But though he had left the fields which be held on the estate in a miserably exhausted state, and the buildings he and his cattle occupied in the most di- lapidated condition, yet they were no longer the same now. Mart had thrown the whole weight of his cheerful spirit and his vigorous arm upon them, and was already known as one of the most steady payers of his rent, and the most punctual perform- ers of his allotted days of service (the old fro4n Dienst) upon the estate. He was not rich, nor hardly to be called easy, as peasant life goes, in his circumstances, but he was a rising man; and thi description of suitors we recommend to young hi dies far more than those who have ready ma fortunes to offer. TH1~ DISPONENT. Under tihese circumstances there did not seem much occasion for a very long courtship. Annos dowry would not increase with the delay of the marriage- day, nor Marts industry diminish with the speedy celebration of it; on the contrary, he assured her that he feE much more tempted to waste time while there were eleven wersts between them, than he should do when she was under his own roof. But whether this was niost true or most ingenious, we must leave. One afternoon,therefore, Mart dressed himself out in his Sunday hest, and, accompanied by another peasant, a pale, unhappy looking man, the very antipodes to himself, mounted his cart, for spring had just hurst out, and took the road for old Tonnos dwelling; first, however, having stowed into the vehicle some bundles carefully wrapped up in linen. The road led through several wersts of wood, in which Marts house stood, and then past the barons residence, and all the retinue of farming buildings, stables, and outhouses, all built in the same style, with which, as is the fashion in Livo- nia, the house was surrounded. These were all very heavy, and ugly, and in wretched bad taste, but to Marts eyes they were beautiful; and as he looked upon them, and reflected that the owner of all this pomp and splendorthe being who had a right to live in that great rambling house, with all his farming buildings directly under his nosewas voluntarily spending his time and money in a for- eign land, Mart felt that this was one of those mys- teries of the human heart which his own could not comprehend. The next object that caught his eye was a smaller house, about two wersts off the Hof, or barons residence, and built somewhat in the same style, but this was much more rcally pretty; it stood picturesquely with trees behind and above it, and a clear stream before, which gave a still prettier picture of the same thing, only reversed. Then the house was built of stone and painted yel- low, with a copper roof painted green, and it had four sash-windows, and a wooden porch, and alto- gether Mart felt that this was a residence more en- viable still. It was the Disponcnts! Mart bad not passed that way since the day that Anno had declined be- coming its inmate and mistress. We will not say that this was so great a mystery to Marts mind as the last he had tried to solve; he felt his heart was worth any Disponents house any day, though a modester one never beat; but still the thought that Anno had given up a yellow stone house, with a green copper roof, and sash-windows, and a porch, and numberless treasures beside, all for him, brought with it an overwhelming feeling as if he could never adore her enough; and he urged on the little willing horse, and saw and thought of no more houses until he reached that in which his Einokenne (only oiie) dwelt. This was not a very tempting domicile. It was built on the borders of a large morass, on which the waters of the winters snow still stood, and which spread also over the few stony, bare-looking fields which composed Tonnos allotted tenure. The house was of wood, old and dark, with a high bristly back of dilapidated thatch hanging down low over two little pigs-eyes of windows, which seemad adapted for anything but the admission of light. The low log walls were stained and rotten, some of the timbers were warped and sunk, and it looked altogether a structure which a spark might set on fire, or a puff blow down. But all around was clean and tidy: the recent sweeping marks at the door looked, it is true, as if they expected a guest, but two long stripes jf linen bleaching close by, and a numerous brood of hens and chickens chuclding over them, showed that Annos care had commenced before the present occasion. As the little cart drove up to the house, not a creature was visible. But soon old Toarros rough grizzled head appeared from beneath the low door- stall; he looked very knowing and shrewd, but af- fected great surprise at their coming, and asked them what they wanted. I 11 tell you what I want presently, said Mart, with a significant air, as if he wanted to coquet with the approaching merriment, at the same time tug- ging away at the shafts to unloose his little horse. Ill tell you presently. A fine day, Tonno. A very fine day, answered Tonno: how does your rye come on 1 Capitally well, said Mart; but I want a pretty bird to help me to peck it, and I hear she has flown in here. A pretty bird! what is she like B Let me see and I 11 tell you, said Mart. Bring out the whole cageful, said ~his com- panion; and Tonno disappeared. Audible sounds of laughter now resounded from beneath the roof, and in a few minutes the old man returned, drag- ging by one arm a robust peasant girl, all crimson with laughter and shamefacedness. Here s your bird, said Touno. Mart pretended to scrutinize the lady, and at- tempted to take her hand, when he was repelled with that degree of violence which is the approved standard of Lettish modesty. A very pretty bird, he said, but she is too shy for meyou may let her fly. Again Tonno retired, and again the same laugh- ter was heard, in which Mart thought he caught some tones which set his heart beating. This time Tonno brought forward a weather-beaten hard- worked-looking peasant woman, with the matrons cap on her head, who looked up boldly and good- humoredly at the young man, and seemed to enjoy the joke. This is your bird, said Tonno again. A very nice bird indeed. answered Mart; but I suspect she has already got a mate for her- self. I shall have my eyes pecked out if I put my head into her cage. No! try again. Then was brought out a little girl of ten years old, and Mart said she was not fully fledged; and then an old woman, bent with age, and Mart patted her shoulder tenderly, and said he should like her very much, because she would not fly away; but still she was not the right onewith various other witticisms. Have you any more birds in your cage B he inquired. No, said Tonno; the cage is empty now. Then I must look for myself; and leaving the party iu a roar of mirth outside, Mart stooped his tall head under the door-stall and entered the house. What took place then, and where he found the bird, and how he contrived to catch her, we of course do not know. At all events, he was a long time about it, and it was not till old Tonno had summoned them at the top of his voice, and the women had come round and peeped in at the win- dows, that the parties appearedboth looking very red, happy, and silly. Then Mart went in a great hurry, as if to cover some confusion, and brought out the bundles 70 THE DISIONENT. wrapped in linen. Their contents proved to con- sist of bright handkerchiefs, pretty aprons, and gay ribbons, which each in turn elicited fresh bursts of admiration, and which he hung side by side upon Annos pretty round arms, till there was not a space left. Then he took a large silver brooch with red glass studs, and put it into one hand, and two silver ruble-pieces, and put them into the other: and having thus laden her with as much as she could hold, he boldly took her head between his great hands, gave her a hearty kiss before all the spectators, and said, Here is my pretty bird. As this was felt by all the party to be pretty con- clusive, though not necessarily belonging to the ueremony, Tonno now invited them all to enter the house, when, bringing out a bottle of spirits which had been brewed in better days, they all drank to the health of the bridal pair. We have mentioned the peasant who accompa- nied Mart in this expedition. His office, according to the ancient rules in these matters, which are strictly kept up among the peasantry, was that of Thautwerber, or bride-wooer, though it must be )wned Mart had left him but little scope for it. This trust is always committed to a steady married man, usually some near relation of the bridegroom, who serves as spokesman for one who is supposed to be too bashful to speak for himself. It is well, therefore, that on this occasion the bridegroom was Aot of this description, or he would have found but little help in the Brautwerber he had selected; for Juhann, as we have said, was pale and timid look- ing, and as melancholy and silent as his looks be- spoke. Nobody wondered at Marts choice of him on this occasion, for all knew that they were sworn friends, but how they came to be so it was difficult to account for, except by the contrast in their char- acters. So it was, however. Mart loved the poor, anxious, depressed-looking creature, and he in re- turn would do anything for Mart, and certainly would have undertaken this office for no one else, nor now without much persuasion; also with the conviction, perhaps, that it would prove what we have shown it to have beena complete sinecure. It is needless to de,cribe Annos second visit to the pastorat, nor how the ceremony of betrothal went off without the sli htest interruption or mis- take. The good pastor looked at the young couple before him with the deepest interest, read oft Marts honest, open countenance with the most en- tire satisfaction to himself, and threw into his ad- dress a tender tone of exhortation and comfort. Altogether this little episode spoke to a set of feel- ings in his breast which, in the exercise of his avocation, generally lay dormant. He had long come to that conviction to which all actively benev- olent persons do, or should arrive, that the disap- pointment of the finer and more delicate sentiments of the heart is the necessary price you pay for the exercise of charity, especially towards such objects as need it most; and that, in truth, you are never purely and disinterestedly charitable till you do forego all expectation of their indulgence. He knew too much of the straitening and numbing in- fluence of excessive material want to wonder that the more poetical parts of the human character should perish beneath it. These, he felt, would always start up into life the moment the weight which impeded them was removed; and meanwhile, that the roots from which alone they spring should still preserve their vitality, only furnished him, like a true Christian philosopher as he was, (albeit a Ger- man,)with a further argument for the truth and power 71 of the gospel he preached. For the Lettish peas- ant, however abject misery may make him, is still always a believing creature, easily directed to good, bitterly penitent in evil. Under these circumstances the pastor looked at the young and handsome couple before him with a feeling of almost romantic interest. Disinterested love was a virtue, and happy love a luxury, which he seldom had the pleasure of witnessing among his poor peasantry. He was kindly interested in all who came before him, but there was that in the history, appearance, and tenderness of Mart and Anno in which he could positively sympathize. lie felt that he had not given this woman, as he gave too many others, merely to be a slaves slave, but to become the cherished wife of an honest, upright man. We shall be thought to have laid far too much stress upon the form of betrothal, considering that of marriage has still to come. But, in truth, among this primitive people, both the ceremony that pre- cedes it and the festivities that succeed to it are felt to be of far more importance than the wedding cere- mony itself. This latter the Lettish peasant ap- pears to go through with simply because the law requires it. The solemnity of the occasion to him is overthe rejoicings still to come. Generally speaking, therefore, he appears at the church with- out any holiday signs upon him, and in his every- day working garment, and unattended, save by the necessary witness. As for taking his wife home to his own dwelling after the ceremony is over, this is an indecorum no Lettish peasant would dream of. No! the wedded couple separate at the church door, and go their way. not to meet again until the day appointed for their own national modes of merry-making. As for Mart and Anno, however, they are suspected of haviii,, been guilty of very great breaches of etiquette, for he was known to have walked the greater part of the way borne to Uxnorm with her from church, and a cart and horse very much like his were decidedly seen there next evening. CHAPTER III. ON the appointed day there was an early meeting of friends and relatives at Marts house. his invi- tations had been most liberalhe was a universal favoritethe day was fine, and one little cart-full of gay wedding gpests rattled up to the door after another. Preparations for plentiful feasting had been going on for some days previous, under the superintendence of the old grandmother, a vener- able, mild-looking old dame, who went tottering about in a new apron of the brightest red, yellow, and green that could be foundMarts particular gift for the ocbasion. The house was swept clean, and strewn with fresh sprigs of spruce-fir; the wooden barrels and drinking vessels were all fresh and as white as the running waters of the stream could make them; Marts old dog, a fine creature, in size and color like a lioness, kept wag- ging his tail without ceasing; the cocks and hens retreated up to the rafters of the roof, and there stood and crowed perpetually, and every living thing seemed in good humor. Conspicuous among the arrivals were two smart young peasants, who looked particularly full of bustle, importaiice, and facetiousness, and seemed in some respects to take the direction of matters even over the bridegroom himself. These were the marshalsa species of best menwhose office is also very ancient and important, and who now TI1T~ DISPONENT. reminded Mart of what he was all ready to remind them, namely, that it was time to fetch the bride. A little procession of carts, therefore, set out, headed by the marshals and including most of the male guests, a~~d Mart, of course, among them; while one cart in particular, Marts own, decked up with boughs and driven by the Brautwerber, was evidently destined to bring back the prize. The hour was still early, the roads were good, and they met with no incident on the way. Arrived at Uxnorm, where they found also a duster of guests awaiting them, the marshals alighted first, and entered in the name of the bride- grown to demand the bride. They were not long about this proceeding, or Mart would soon have been after them, but reappeared in a few minutes, followed by, rather than leading, the young girl. Anno was apparently in her usual dress, her tight- fitting woollen garment covering all decorations beneath; but her pretty head was quite bare, her maiden circlet had been left behind, and the ma- trons cap had not yet taken its place. The door of the house was low and widethe slim figure, and modest, tender head. stood in full relief against the dark interior, and as she lingered, unconsciously perhaps, on the threshold, arid looked back one mo- ment, Marts manly heart swelled with that exceed- ing gratefulness which seems at once to change a selfish passion into a holy duty. The father showed himself nothe stayed behind. This is the eti- quette at a Lettish wedding. The man fetches his wife unaided by his parentsthe woman leaves her home uncompelled by hers; each is free. But at that moment etiquette was far enough from Marts thoughts. The instant her foot quitted her fathers threshold he was at her side, lifted rather than helped her into the cart, and, in defiance of all rule and custom, seized the reins himself, and sprung in after. In vain did the brautwerber meekly expos- tulate, and the marshals imperiously dictateMart was in full possession, and in such a state of up- roarious happiness that there seemed to be no access to his understanding by the usual channels. The little horse knew his master, and set off at full speed, and all the anxiety of the marshals was now di- rected to prevent his taking the lead in the proces- sion, which would have been the climax of impro- priety. This they managed to avert after a short race, when Mart having effected his aim, dropped contentedly behind them, and the little horse was left very much to please himself. The day was now up; the procession, swelled by Anno~s bridesmaids and relatives, cut a most imposing figure, and the marshals were anxious to exercise their privileges, namely, that of making every other vehicle on the road turn off for them. The first they met were humble peasants like them- selves, who were as willing to observe the custom as they were to exact it, and who drew off imme- diately to the side, and waved their caps as the party passed. A werst or two farther on, how- ever, a private barouche was seen approaching four spirited horses full in the middle of the road, as if they would run down all that opposed them a long-bearded coachman on the box as firm and im- movable as the engine on a steam-carriage. Now was the time for asserting their rights. The Braut- werber, timid man! was all for relinquishing them, but the marshals had warmer blood in their veins. They knew well enough what it was to turn off for their haughty masters, to stick in the road-side mud, or struggle in the road-side drift, while the Barons carriage rolled by without yielding an inch, not to make the most of such a rare opportunity for retah- ation. Pulling and chucking, therefore, at their little horses, who, from tIme force of habit, had already begun to turn their heads patiently aside, they drew them close together, and supported im- mediately behind by Mart himself, who, in his turn, encouraged the procession to keep their places, they presented a firm phalanx. On came the four horses sweeping along, the coachman started into life, shook the whip which hung upon his wrist, and discharged a mouthful of Russian oaths at the body. A concussion now seemed inevitable, when a broad, good-humored face leant forward from the barouche, saw the state of the case in a moment, and dis- charged a very similar volley at the coachman in return. The carriage instantly swerved to one side. This was quite enough. Every cap flew off, every face expanded, and there was not one of the p~rty who would not have been willing to drive their carts into a ditch for that same good-humored face another time. On they went more merrily than ever, undisputed lords of the road, ready to defy the autocrat him- self, if one of his meteoric courses had led him in that direction. Their way now turned off from the high road towards the mansion and farming build- ings we have spoken of before. The great man- sion with its front of five-and-twenty windows lay in the distance, and close on omie hand was the Disponents with its four, two to the south, and two to the east, with the sun full upon the yellow walls and green roof brighter than ever. A pretty house, said Mart. Vegga illos, very prettywhispered his companion. Shall I drive you there, Anno I he said, with a sly expression. Yes, when you are Disponent, answered Anno. This was said so hivelily, and with such a look up into his face as she had never ventured on before, that it was no wonder that Mart took occa- sion to whisper something particularly confidential; on which down went Ann& s head low into her lap, and Marts almost as low after it. Nothing, in- deed, but the singularity of such a position could have prevented the young couple from seeing a one-horse vehicle, of a kind of droschky shape, which was advancing rapidly. As it was, they were first roused from the conviction of there being no other individuals in the world but their two selves, by the harsh voice of the Disponent himself summoning the marshals to turn off the road. Now there is something in the very place and person of a Disponent paticularly odious to a half- civilized peasantry, like these we are describing, who have still too much of the serf in them to dream of questioning the authority of their masters, but too much also of the freeman to bear the tyranny of a class possessing all the mischief of their mas- ters power, without the prestige of their position. It is invariably to the Ds~ponent of an estate to whom all the misery and misrule upon it are to be traced. Their interest is equally served by the negligence of the proprietor and the ignorance of tIme peasant, and the one is usually misled and the other misrepresented as best suits their mercenary purposes. Setting aside the personal hatred in which Jan was held, it was sufficient that he was a Disponent for them to rejoice in this opportunity for exercising their short prerogative. Even the Brautwerber shook his matted locks and brandished his whip in signal of resistance, and it was evident not an inch 72 would be yielded by his consent. Mart, however, was quiet. His blood mounted and his eyes dilated like an ancient Barsark, as he overheard the swag- gering commands and Jack-in-office abuse which the fellow levelled at the party. But Anno was frightened, and as he put his arm round her, he felt diat he was not quite so free to fight his quarrels with one who could work him so much good or ill, as he had been a few weeks before. Besides, he really bore the Disponent no unkind- ness. It is easy and sweet to be generous when you are happy, and Mart felt that Jans mortification had been his triumph. The marshals, however, were exceedingly pugnacious. They belonged to another estate, which did not come under his jurms- dietion, and they levelled the best Lettish slang at him at the top of their voices. The shaking of harness and the creaking of wheels was now heard,I and the parties stood up in their respective vehi- cles, as if eager to throw their grappling-irons. There is no saying what might have ensued, when one of the marshals gave the Disponents horse a cut across the face, which made the poor animal turn sharp aside with a suddenness his master could not stopdown went the wheel into a ditchthe whole party swept past with cheers and groans of derision, and a stout voice called out, Where s your wife, Jan? We 11 turn off for you when you bring her home. This was the crowning triumph of the day. They now entered the little forest-road in which there was no further chance of obstruction, and mending their pace, drove on for some time in silence. Then they broke out into a low monoto- nous chant, which, though far from musical in itself, rang pleasingly through the thicket of irreg- ular trees which led to Marts house, and an- nounced their approach before they themselves be- came visible. Auno had never seen Marts dwelling before. It is not so beautiful as Jans house, said Mart in a low voice. Illos kiill beautiful enough answered Anno, in a still lower. The cart now stopped at the low wide door, which was crowded with guests awaiting their arrival, and the married lovers l~te-~-t~te was over. The marshals, elated with their late successes, were all on the alert to fulfil their parts. The gloves suspended to the shafts, which are supposed to bring good luck to whoever reaches them first were eagerly snatched: the bride was lifted from the cart at one bound on to a sheepskin extended b3fore the do.or, to signify that the way through life was henceforth to be soft to her feeta type, alas! to which there is no reality, at least not under a Russian government! The Brautwerber strewed corn before her, in emblem that abundance was to follow her to her new home, and thus she was carried in noisy triumph over her husbands threshold. There, surrounded by the women who had remained behind, and propped in a rude high- backed chair, sat Liso, Marts grandmother, ready to receive the new corner. This was their first meeting, and the old dame threw a searching and solemn glance on the slight girl, in whom she saw at once the maiden her grandson had wooed, the bride lie had betrothed, and the wife he had married. Anno bent involun- tarily before her, and not a word was exchanged, as, slowly rising and coming forward, the old woman took a high stiff cap made of white silk and placed it on Annos pretty head. Voices had been cxxvi. LIVING AG1~. VOL. xi. ~i 73 loud, and faces merry, but all were now hushed and serious, for this simple ceremony went to everybodys heart. The meeting between youth and age is at all times a touching sight and an impressive lesson, telling us what the one has been and the other must become. The very difference between them disposes the mind to reverse more than to compare to put the aged back, and the youthful forward. Annos head trembled with girlish timidity, old Lisos shook with infirm age; yet both were only separated by that time which time itself would unite. When the cap had been slowly adjusted, the grandmother again gave a glance at Anno, and in a shrill, distinct voice repeated this ancient form of words which belongs to the ceremony: Forget thy sleep.Remember thy youth..~ Love thy husband. Accompanying each sen- tence with a slight stroke of Annos cheek. Then turning to Mart, Ah! my son, my son ;you are a good man; you have chosen a beautiful wife; I know she will be a happy one. Then addressing Anno, He has been always good to an old grand- mother, will he not be good to a young wife? I hope you are worthy of him. Grandmotherpci (good) grandmother ! said Mart, in a tone of expostulation; but Aiino stood upright with modest self-possession; and taking Marts great brown hand in hers, she kissed it with wifely reverence. Then going round to all her new relations and guests, she begged their affec- tion, as is the custom, and kissed their handsnot even the Brautwerbers little puny boy of three years old was omitted. And Marts eyes followed the movements of that new white cap with exulta- tion, for he felt that tIme face beneath must win all hearts. Finally, she patted old Karria Pois, who sat gravely by the grandmothers side looking on, and who lifted his broad forehead under the pres- sure of her hand, and raised his large gentle eyes to her, with as affectionate a look of welcome as any she had received. Then placing herself next Lisos chair, she quietly stooped for a little wooden footstool which had been pushed away, and placed it beneath the old womans feet, as if by this sim- ple action to show that her course of filial service was begun. In the estimation of most present, especially of the women, the placing of the cap was by far the most important ceremony that had occurred, and cer- tainly Anons own feelings inclined that way. She had listened to the exhortation at her betrothal with awe, and received the marriage benediction with wonder; but there was something more than both in the touch of that aged hand on her cheek, and iii the pressure of the cap on 11cr brow, which made her feel that now indeed she was a wife. The male guests now all turned out again; and Anno mingled with the other women in preparing the meal, and delighted old Lisos heart by her evi- dent neatness and skill. This meal, which answered the purpose of br~akfast and dinner both, consisted of but few dishes, and those of a primitive kind. There was a whole row of wooden vessels full of sour milk, with cream an inch thick upon ita national and most delicious dish, which the daintiest palate need not despise, but which requires the richness of a Lettish pasturage and the heat of a Lettisli summer to prepare. Then there was plenty of pickle! str6rrlin the anchovies of the northwhich in times of THE DISPONENT. 74 THE DISPONENT. average plenty form the chief article in the daily might at first sight have been safely taken for some food of the peasantry; with tubs full of hot smok- variety of national flag, but which the ladies pres- ing crayfish, lobsters in miniature, which abound in ent instantly recognized to hc the newest and most the streams of this country, and are much in re- fashionable description of apron. Then, diving for quest for the tables of the upper classes. Of sub- Anno, who was ensconced behind everybody else, stantial loaves of fermented rye-bread of course he brought her forward, and with some pretended, there was a great provision, varied by another and and quite sufficient real awkwardness, succeeded in lighter kind called seppig, being the same unfer- tying it up round her short but slender waist. mented, which served for cake. All these solids Then the marshals came up: each took a corner were duly counterbalanced by a profusion of strong of the apron, and, examining it attentively, shook beer, or what in other lands would come under the their heads and said, This is not a good apron. denomination of ale, the produce of Marts own What ails it P inquired the Brautwerber. field and hop-garden: while two of those peculiar It s an old rag, they answered; there s a shaped bottles which seem predestined to much the hole in it. same purpose all over the world, raised their slen- Perhaps this will mend it, rejoined the Braut- der throats from out of their big bodies, full of the werber, and threw in a silver half-ruble. colorless dew of a finer and stronger distillation That s a good beginning, hut it will want of which, by the way, northern heads and stomachs more yet. Hold tight, Anno; and they each can bear more than any other nation. threw in a silver coin, declaring that the hole was The meal was conducted with great propriety: bigger than they had thought, and that it would the young couple sat together for the first time, take a good deal to stop it. Then each guest in and the marshals did the honors and plied the turn drew near, and flung in their offerings, which guests, who were very quiet and silent, as hungry fell heavy or light according to the means of the people with a full board before them usually are. giver. Long the little silver shower continued, On this account perhaps this meal is not looked up- while Anno stood and bent her head gracefully, on as the chief entertainment. The company is and whispered Olge tervisthank youas each supposed to eat from simple appetite, and not from coin fell. epicurean enjoyment. Other ceremonies had to be The marshals now again approached, and declar- performed, and even among this rude people there ed there were several more holes they had not oh- is a feelin,, against revelling in the day-time. The served at firstgreat onesand again each cast a daylight is another thing, and not to be avoided at mite into the growing treasury. Their example a season when the night is only a paler day about was followed with increased alacrity. In vain three hours long. Anno repeated Olge tervis, and Mart interposed Accordingly, having satisfied their appetites, they with Ki~ll, lull, ea kftll enough, enough, quite left the benches and again dispersedthe men enough; the gifts continued. The fulness of the smoking their pipes and lounging at the door, or brides apron is as much the test of the popularity sleeping upon the bank of the stream in the sun, of the bridegroom as of her own; and Marts occasionally exchanging some facetious remarks warm heart and strong arm had rendered too many with the women and girls cleaning the wooden yes- services to his neighbors not to be requited on such sels, as they passed backwards and forwards to the an occasion as this, when all purse-strings are sup- stream. Anno, however, never appeared from posed to hang very loose. within; and Mart, who neither slept nor smoked, Nor were their donations confined to the coin of was frequently missing from without. the realm; a hank of fine white wool was thrown During this entre acte old Tonno, with a few in by one hand, and a bunch of shining flax by other decrepid worthies, arrived. By rights he another; then a roll of stout homespun linen, and should not have come till the next day; but Mart a piece of coarse woollen cloth, and ribbons, aiid ~vas determined to curtail the time of festivity, and woollen gloves, and a little bit of coarse lace, and to cram every possible rite and every possible hos- various other articles of female use or luxury. pitahity into a shorter time than usual. Anno Then a measure of fresh eggs was placed down on blushed up under her very cap as she saw her one side of her, and a small tub of salt butter for father, who, according to a customary witticism, winter luxury at the other; and suddenly a new pretended not to know her in this costume. spinning-wheel appeared in front; and a crazy old His arrival was the signal for another national basket, out of which peeped several chickens observance of more importance to the worldly wel- heads; and, lastly, a tottering calf was driven up, fare of the young couple than any that had preceded till Anno was fairly surrounded with objects of it. The marshals now started up into activity, household wealth, and stood in the midst like the gave three or four loud discordant whoops to rouse Goddess of Abundance. Then more and more was those who slept, and sumnion those who had wan- heaped upon the apron, till either the brides arms dered, and soon assembled them all in a numerous or the apron-strings seemed in danger of giving body before the house. way; and at last the marshals pronounced it to be It was altogether a pretty scene. The sun had fairly mended, and not a hole more discernible. begun to decline from its lon& held height in the But now old Liso hobbled forward, and, with heavens, and the sloping shadows of the trees fell her wrinkled face lighted up with a cheerful pleas- over the long straight roof and low walls, and ant expression, turned to the marshals, and told played and quivered among the crowd assembled at them they were young men, but still they were the door; whicha, with the bright costumes of the very blind; that even her old eyes could see women, the dull coarse garments of the men, and another great hole, and one which only her offering the uncouth figures and faces of too many of them, could repair. together with the rough benches and tables, and Daughter, she said to Anno, all your pres picturesque wooden vessels scattered around, looked cuts are very beautiful, and your neighbors have hike some northern Ostades village-feast, made you very rich; but there is nothing in all The Brautwerber now came forward, and, taking they have given you which can mend the holes of & ismall parcel from his pocket, shook out what human life like this. The time may come when THE DISPONENT. you have nothing left to you of all your worldly goods, but even then, with the blessing of the l4ord, you shall find this enough. So saying, she drew forth a Lettish Testament, which looked as if it had had the care and wear of many a year, and laid it topmost on the heap. Now the apron was actually in danger, and how its contents were not all spilled was really a won- der; for Annos arms were in a moment round the old womans neck; but Marts ready hand had seized the load; and untying it from Annos waist, he stood holding it in her stead, and looked on with glistening eyes. We pass over the concluding scenes of the wed- ding festivities, which had far more noise and less meaning in them than any which have hitherto been described; and which lasted so long, that Anno longed to lay aside her heavy new cap, and Mart to dismiss his guests. They were not, how- ever, to be let off so easily. The jollity ceased, it is true, with the setting of the sun, but rose again the next day, though not so early as he. Then they adjourned to old Tonnos house, as is the cus- tom, and then returned to Marts, and, in short, pretty well ate and drank up the value of what they had presented, before they left the young couple to themselves to begin what are called the realities of life. ChAPTER iv. IF ever these same realities, as they are inappro- priately called only because they are disagreeable, promised to fall lightly on any human heads and hearts, it was on the present occasion. Mart and Anno were both so young and cheerful and pious. They had injured uo one, and everybody liked them. Neither did they expect a life of ease, but both were willing to work, and it was a pleasure to work for each other. And then there was that good old woman, the wisdom of whose age seemed only to encourage the trustfulness of their youth. For though there might be hard seasons, and bad liar- vests, and cruel masters, of which she had had her full share, yet Liso knew that the world would come to an end sooner than the blessing of God fail in 1-Jis own time and His own way upon one who had cherished an aged parent as Mart had done her. The summer days flew quickly by; one of the little attentions of Marts short period of courtship had been to plant a corner of one of his fields with flax for Annos use, and the plentiful return now showed that no common labor had been bestowed. Otherwise the harvest was far from good, and some grumbled who always grumbled, but some also shook their beads who were not given to despond. But the truth is, that on most estates in this country, and especially on those left to the tender mercies of a Disponcnt, it is only in the kest of harvests that the peasants are kept above want; bad times they can never afford to meet. Mart, how- ever, had not much to fear. He had some little provision for the future, and also he had no debts either in corn or labor to pay, as too many have; and this enabled him to give all his spare summer time to improvin, his fields. He was a tenant upon ancient tenure, giving three days work himself and his horse to the proprietor of the estate, as a weekly rental for the portion he cultivated for his own maintenance, besides a certain allotment of corn, linen, fowls, and eggs. This tenure falls very hard upon the ignorant and careless peasant, especially since the so-called act of enfranchisement has reliev- ed the upper classes from all responsibility for his welfare and support, and retained their full author- ity over his labor. A single mans work for three days in the week during the short Russian summer caii hardly cultivate sufficient land to maintain him and his family the year round. Then, besides the portion of corn for the landlord, another, never grudged, be it said to their honor, goes to the cler- gyman; while a third is exacted from hini to put into what is called the Bauerklcte, or peasant s granary; in other words, to contribute to a fund of corn against the time of scarcity; which fund, from mismanagement, theft, or fraud, is too often found low or empty when most required. It is true the peasants are frequently improvident lazy, and inclined to avoid their quota of labor,but stilt their sufferings arise quite as much from the over- reaching of their rulers as from any shortcomings of their own. Marts work was by no means light this summer. He was willing and active as usual, but, do what lie would, nothing went right. The most fatiguing labor was always allotted to him; all he did was pronounced ill-done; his feelings were insulted with unjust suspicions; his temper was tried with abusive language; and Liso and Anno saw him often return to them after a long days ahsei~ce with a weariness which seemed to be as much of the mind as of the body. Anno had her suspicions as to the causes of all this, but as long as he did not speak~ she forbore any allusion, and only endeavored by womanly tender- ness and attention to make his home-life within compensate for his discomforts without. Time crept on with rather an increase than a diminution of this tyranny. Marts light heart and generous temper struggled hard. It was not the present trial that lie minded; lie would not have eared how his duties were increased or encumbered for a while, if with the labor of his bands and the determination of his mind he could have worked them off; but it was a new feeling for him to have a fear for the future, and this it was which struck the deepest. Not that he was much weighed down; as long as his home was undisturbed and his con- science unclouded Mart could not be unhappy, and his clear whistle was still heard in his field, and his white teeth seen bared with laughter before his house door. Several weeks had thus elapsed when Mart re- turned one day from his distant work with an ex- pression of face Anno had never seen before. He was haggard and miserable. He said nothing, however, and sat down mechanically to his evening meal, though it was evident he did not know what was before him. Anno had still too much of the child about her to venture to search the cause for, his depression, though enough of the woman to try every way to soothe it. All the little accumu- lated home news of one dayall the trifles, precious or worthless, according to how they are told, or how they are heard, were raked and scraped to- gether with infinite ingenuity. Poor Mart was both too sweet tempered and too niiserable to be impatient, but his heart was not in a word she said. At length, he flung his arms down on the board, laid his curly head upon them, and groaned aloud. Mart! Mart! what is the matter? said Anno, now really frightened beyond all concealment. Tell me, pray.~~ Oh! Anno, said her husband, we are ruined! Anno, we are ruined! Look here, and he gave her a little scrap of coarse Russian paper with a few words sexawled upon it. Anno could not read 75 THE DISPONENT. writing very quickly, but she saw at a glance what this meant. It was a summons to draw lots at the next recruitage. Mart, said Anno this is the Dispozzents doing. Mart nodded his head in mournful assent. Both had long felt he was their enemy, and both knew too well why. Not a word further was spoken between the young couple for a few minutes, during which Mart sat staring blankly before him, with Karria Pois poking his great nose unnoticed into his baud; and Anno was turning over every ima- ginable expedient in her mind to remove it. Ale can buy you off, Mart, she exclaimed hastily. We can buy you off. We II sell the pigs and the young colt, and even the cows if neces- sary; and then there s the new corn. How much does the protection cost? Mart shook his head. and would have smiled if possible. A thousand rubles! Annoa thousand rubles think of that! We might just as well try to buy the whole estate at once. All our pigs and cows together would not fetch Iifty, and the corn is all wanted, and more than ever now, perhaps. No: there s no buying me off. But Anno .had more than one string to her bow. A new hope had struck her. There s the scar on your arm, Mart, from the burn when you saved those children. They take no recruits with personal defects. Again Mart could have smiled. No, no, my Anno; that did not hurt me then, and wont help me now. I shall suit very well for their purpose, for all that. In truth, this was a still forlorner hope than the last. There were not many such manly, well-grown figures that went up for exam- ination and measurement, and not many so fine an arm to dip for the fatal lot. But Annos inventions were not exhausted. Timidly she said, Do you think, Mart, that if Liso and 1Liso, you know, with mewere to go and beg Ian to help you off ?~He always protected you before. Mart was now no longer inclined to smile. Not a word, Anno, he said with haste. You shall never go near that man; I d sooner be a soldier fifty times over. No, Anno, that wont do; but I may escapethere are several of us. Go and tell my grandmother; I cant, and he flung out of the door and went deep into the wood. A sudden joy has always appeared to us a great waste of the materials of happiness, and a threat- ened evil an equal aggravation of the ingenuities of misery. There is enough in the mere anticipa- tion of certain happiness (humanly speaking) to smooth down many an existing evil and too much in the dread of possible sorrow to embitter many a surrounding good. It was a wretched and a heavy period for our young couple which intervened between the day which announced this trial and the day which was to decide it. The weather was splendidthe seed was put well into the groundeverything in the little household promised well. But promises point to a future, and their future lay behind a dark barrier. Mart took alternate fits of listless depres- sion and excessive hard work, and between the two he shrunk so much that his clothes hung about him as if he had had an illness. Anno pursued her usual occupations: the flax was combed, and the spinning-wheel went its round; but she pined and gtew pale, as if in an unwholesome atmosphere. Not the least part of this trial was that there was nothing to do, nothing to prepare, nothing to resist. If the worst came to the worst, there would be always time enough to settle Marts few affairs, and meanwhile they had to bear that which is one of the severest taxes upon the human mind, namely, the living on in the same external world with a total change of internal thoughts. The good old woman was now the greatest bles- sing to both. The miseries of the recruiting time were but too familiar to her, who had lost two sons in the hard service. She knew, better than the fears of either could imagine, the real evils which the dreaded lot entailed. But her piety was of that true kind which can equally bear the passive sus- pense or the active sorroxv; simply because it bears them with the strength of another. Each came to her when their hearts were too full to endure alone, and yet would not burden the other. Mart tried to be a man to his wife, but he did not mind being a child to his grandmother, and in a true child-like spirit did he receive that pious advice and comfort which best restored him to the self-possession of the true man. He now recover- ed much of his usual bearing He ~vas serious and silent, but gentler than ever, and bad that composure of manner which showed internal peace. Mart had not known at first which was to be the decisive day; but now he did; and he told Anno that it was to be on the Wednesday of the follow- ing week. To his grandmother, however, he owned that it was fixed for the Monday. But he deceived his wife, feeling that two days more of suspense in idea was better than one day of real agony. On the Sunday they all xvent to church. Liso did not often go, on account of her infirmities, hut this time Mart wished they should be all together. A general gloom was spread through the congre- gation, for the recruiting season inspires peculiar horror in the minds of the Lettish peasantry, and all knew that b) that time Lo-morrow one or more of their number would be separated from home, and condemned to a service harder than every other to mind and body, in which there is neither glory nor pay. Many were in anxiety for their own relatives, nevertheless all eyes turned upon Mart and Anno, as they helped the infirm woman up the church path, with peculiar pity, for they felt that theirs was the hardest case. Mart went straight into LIme church; he was averse to idle talk, and also feared the possibility of Annos being enlightened as to the real day. He prayed with his whole heart to be enabled to meet the result of the next day in a right spirit by that he only meant that result he dreaded the other alternative lie could trust his heart to bear, and yet dared not trust his heart to look at. Ammo wept in silence, and did not exchan0e a word with a creature. After service was over Mart waited aloof till the congregation was dispersed, and then, leaving Liso and Anno in the cart, went to the pastors house. There in that spirit of complete confidence which is one of the most beautiful parts of the faith most opposed in every way to the Lutheran, and perheps descended from it, he laid open to the pastor every feeling of his heart: the great happiness of his past life, and the struggle it had cost him to resign himself to this unexpected trial. The good old man was much moved. He had heard with astonishment that Mart was to draw, knowing chat his character as one of the best-doing peasants on the estate had hitherto screened him 76 TilE DISPONENT. He had no power to help, for the absenteeism of added those condemned to the service for crimes the young proprietor of this estate took from him and misdemeanorsthose, such as all soldiers many a means of softening the condition of the children, condemned to it withoutand the odd peasants. The Hakertrichter, or magistrate of the numbers accruing from Foundling hospitals, & c. district, who directed the forms in such matters, Such facts as these show not so much the over- was a coarse, unfeeling man, who suffered no inter- grown size of the Russian army, as the enormous fereoce from an inferior, and, like a true Lutheran, expenditure of life at which it is maintained. looked upon the pastor especially as one. Five men between the ages of eighteen and thirty Mart told him~openl~ the ill will the Disponent out of a thousand men, women, and children, of all had showii hini since his marriage, and the evident ages, tell severely upon a population. There are hand lie had in this matter; and then begged the certain conditions which except certain individuals, pastors particular protection to shield Anno from hut no condition can abate the number required. Ians malice, or from what might be worse, in case No three brothers out of a family can be taken, nor he should be taken. The old man promised all the father of three children, unless there be no one Mart could wish, and gave him an almost parental else to supply his place. Also the crown exempts blessing; then, feeling that tears were in his eyes, those it cannot use, such as the lame, the blind, and he smiled with all his might: Be of good heart, the sick; also those the proprietor most wants, for Mart; I have no doubt I shall see you in your which purpose a right of protection is granted him place again next Sunday; and so dismissed him. over a certain number of men, according to the The next morning Anno was still asleep, when size of the estate. But all this caution and gen- Mart rose and went to his grandmother. The old erosity is at the expense of the remaining peasants, woman was prepared, and the hymn-book had been the nuniber of whom, after all these subtractions, in her hand since day had dawned. is reduced to a small amount, and those necessarily Grandmother, said Mart, after a short pause, of the most able and useful men in the village. my time is come; I must go. I cannot speak On the present occasion the population on the much to you, for I feel more like a weak child than estate was snch as to furnish the crown with two a strong man. But give me your blessing to think recruits, and the risk lay between only eight men; of when I put my hand into the jar. nor was it yet decided whether all of these were Oh! my son, said Liso, my blessing you competent subjects to draw. havethe blessing of an old mother upon the most These eight men were now gathered together at dutiful of sons. I could give you nothimig better, the great front steps of the baronial residence we if I would; for God will set His own hand to this. have mentioned, being kept under a kind of restraint Go, then, and be strong in His strength. Think by six soldiers, whose shabby ill-fitting clothes, and not of your old mother, nor of your young wife, dull, jaded, extinguished looks, were not calculated but think only of the Heavenly Father who is ever to encourage, far less to delude, the hearts of those nigh. They may take you far from us, but they who were now to throw for this same lot. cant take you far from Him. Mart was there. lie had kept too much aloof Mart covered his face with his hands, and the big from all his fellow-peasants to know who were tear-drops trickled through. Old Lisos voice destined to share this day of trial with him, and his failed also. I hoped not to have done this, Mart; eye ran mournfully over the figures of two or three but He know~th whereof we are made, and I have of the most valuable members of their little village never shed a tear of sorrow for you before. Go, community, and fell with the sharpesf pang of all go; you have no strength to spare, and I have upon the poor meagre person and pale face of the none to give now, but strength will come when the Brautwerlmer. hitherto Juhann had been screened, need is there. Go, and the blessing of a poor old not from his lack of strength, or for his wife and woman be with you. two little children, but because he excelled in a Mart stood for a moment, then with a peaceful species of carpentering highly useful on the estate. expression he said, Your words have done me The power of protection, in the absence of the good, grandmother. I can go better now, and he proprietor, was left to the Disponents discretion, turned to depart, but something lingered yet at his and Mart felt, what was perfectly true, that the heart; he came back. Take care of my Anno, crime for which poor Juhann had forfeited it this pai grandmother ; and here his voice broke, and time was only that of being his friend. he turned away The Brautwerber was standing to all appearance the same as ever; his head sunk on hits breast, his CHAPTER V. limbs all nerveless and unstrung. His little boy, THE number of recruits annually required for the who seemed to have inherited his fathers meek Russian army, at the time we are describing, was pale face, was on his hand. Father and child were the same as it had been for several years past. seldom separated, and he seemed to have brought Poland first, and Circassia since, have drafted him out of mere habit. Mart drew close to him. severely upon the army, and, independent of all Juhann lifted his eyes to his friend for a moment active service, the favorite pastimes of the great with a look of utter apathy, or what appeared such, drill-serjeant of the empire require a great a mount and then raised them no more. They did not ex- of human life to keep going. The rate of supply, change a word. Marts feelings were wrought up therefore, since the accession of his present Impe- for endurance, and he could neither have borne nor rial Majesty, has never been below the average given one word of sympathy. standard of five in a thousand, and occasionally Presently a coarse domineering voice was heard, above it. Taking the population of the empire at and the Disponent appeared at the top of the steps sixty millions of souls, which is considerably be- and summoned them to enter. He was in the full low their own boasted valuation, and allowing for swagger of revengeful insolence, amid had his eye the numbers being levied alternate years from half fixed upon Mart. But Mart did not look at him; the empire, which rule is often encroached upon, at that moment it mattered not who was the author this alone allows the crown a regular provision of of this bitter hour. The pity for his comrades miad 150,000 recruits per annum. To which may be eased that dreadful sense of pity for himselL ro 78 THE DISPONENT. all the summons sounded like a knell, and firm insulting to the feelings. It is tine, the feelings knees shook, and ruddy cheeks were blanched as of the generality of the peasants are not very keen they moved together up the steps, four of the sol- or delicate, and it would be surprising if under all diers bringing up the rear, as if escorting prisoners, circumstances they were; nevertheless, on more Mart perceived that his friend could hardly drag than one cheek there burned the glow of shame, his limbs along, and in more than one eye there lowered a fire of Lean on me, Juhann, he said, and stooped to resentment, which boded a day of heavy retribution, support him, when he saw that the child was still however distant, between the oppressed and the on the fathers hand. He cant go with us, oppressor. said Mart; give him me I 11 leave him below, At the conclusion of this disgraceful scene, the and he tried to disengage the little hand which the individual, still in the same state, stepped upon a Brautwerber held tight in his cold clammy grasp. plank on which was fixed an upright pole with the Forward, said the soldiers behind, regulation standard of height, generally below the Come on, roared the Disponent in front. usual stunted stature of the peasant. It was absurd What s all this about 1a child! Kick it down to measure Mart, who stood almost a foot above the steps. it; but Russian laws must be performed to the At this moment one of the remaining soldiers, as letter. immovable a machine to all appearance as his com- No demur was made by the officer to any of the rades, came forward and said Dai give. It men hitherto presented; though, acting as immediate was not the word, but the look that spoke. Jnhann agent for the crown, he is generally difficult to let go his bold. Mart lifted up the little thing please. But now the Brautwerbers turn was come, above those next him, and the soldier received it who stood last but two on the list. The officer kindly in his arms. This little act refreshed the looked up, ~aw the small and sickly frame and said poor mens hearts for a moment. laconically, Neiza! he wont do. A burning They were now shown through a great bare hall flush of hope came over the Brautwerbers face and into a side apartment, which, though spacious and throat, who had heard enough of Russian to know lofty, was close and unventilated, for the dusky what this characteristic word meant. The Dispo- double windows had been left standing the year nerd whispered busily into the Hakenricitters great round. There, upon coarse chairs brought in for misshapen ear. the purpose, for it was dirty and unfurnished, were All a sham, Hcrr Major, said the latter per- seated the Hakenrichter, (a kind of magistrate for sonage, turning to the officer. The fellow has the district,) and an officer in uniform; behind been starving himself on purpose to get off. He them, at a long desk, several officials, all highly busy never had an hours illness in his life. There s not examining registers, scrutinizing passports, and a stronger man on the estate; he can do the work scrawling over a great many long sheets of coarse of three men. The Herr Major does not know paper with the stamp of the Russian eagle at top. what rogues these fellows are. All a sham. The Hakenric/zter was a hard-featured, red-haired, These words told with deadly effect; for the thin man, who looked as if he could be both famil- mere suspicion of having disabled theniselves in any iar and unfeeling. He had served in the army, way for the service is enough to overcome the fact and retired from it with that stamp of character even of their being unserviceable. Davolna which Russian habits engender and Russian laws enough, answered the officer; measure him. protect. He always punished the weaker party, Here again another chance of escape seemed to and prided himself on his justice; he never believed present itself; the revulsion from that moment of a word from a peasant, and boasted he was never hope had deprived the Brautwerber of his little taken in; he lied with unblushing effrontery, and remaining strength. As he stood upon the plank thought himself clever; he was fearfully passion- his whole frame sunk together; his head dropped ate, and called himself frank; he had no regard on his breast, and his height fell far short of the for the feelings of others, and fancied himself allotted standard. witty. Stand up ! roared the Ilakenrickler. Pull The officer was also very skinny and very ugly. him up. He wore a great number of orders, and his uniform The soldiers tried to raise him, but the nerveless, showed him to be an aide-de-camp to the emperor. unstrung, and bare body slipped through their grasp, His face, therefore, testified that he could alter- and collapsed lower than ever between them. The nately look the tyrant or the slave as circumstances Disponent hastened round with a brutal expression might require, but otherwise no variety of expres- in his eye. A stout stick was in his hand, with it sion was discernible, he struck the defenceless man a violent blow. The Behind the Ha/cenrichter stood the Disponent, poor creature started up like a goaded horse; the who was high in his favor, looking, as usual, all soldiers jerked up his head; it touched the required honesty to those above him, and all insolence to point for one moment, and then sunk again. those below. But this was enough. He was ranged aside to Now ensued a scene, the mere mention of which lot with the others. Mart had started forward to will be description sufficient. The men, with the his assistance, but had been bellowed back by the exception of poor Juhaun, were all apparently in Hakenrickler; for one of the acquirements of the health, and free from deformity of limb, though one Russian service is to raise your voice to passion ~s was small and puny in size. But the crown is not loudest pitch in all intercourse with inferiors; and satisfied with appearances, lest, peradventure, a re- Mart went back, drawing his breath through his emit should be thrust upon it who might require teeth. He forgot his own trials, but he suffered the hospital instead of the drill. Each man, there- ten-fold in his poor friend. fore, in turn was subjected to a personal scrutiny, Another man followed, and then the last of the only to be ~iompared in nature and manner with eight. He was a sleek-looking fellow, who had that carried on at slave and cattle markets: pro- from the beginning shown no anxiety. He now longed according to the will and pleasure of the went through the appointed ceremony with alacrity, judges, and conducted with every aggravation most and stood before his judges sound and straight ia THE DISPONENT. limb, and those more encumbered with flesh than however decked up with the semblance of fairness, any which had gone before. when man obliges his fellow to decide upon a most He wont do ! said the Hakenrichter, with momentous step without the shadow of one to com- a peecliar expression of face at his military col- fort him. league. The officer looked up with a peculiar ex- The men were now all ranged in order; as they pression in return. This was all-sufficient for the had been examined before the table. Marts figure Hakenriclzter; he now went on more boldly. He stood conspicuous above all the rest. is deformed, he said. The officer scrutinized the He 11 do for the guards, Herr Major, said man with the most serious air. The deformity the Hakenrickier, after six months drilling. is internal, said the Hakenrichter, which is And his chuckle was taken up by the Disponent in always of the worst kind. Will the Herr Major a loud laugh. take the medical certificate l and he handed him a Come, said the officer impatiently, Speschi paper. The gentlemen addressed gave a glance at make hasteall is ready. its contents, and then thrust it into his pocket. Perhaps one of the most barbarous features in the He is deformed ! said the officer with the scene was the total absence of all the cajolery usual regular word-of-command tone; and all the pens in conscription and enlistment occasions. No behind him went quicker than ever. Deformed attempt was made even to delude these poor fellows inside. Let him go. And the soldiers carried in this hitter moment. No one spoke them fair; him out. The man was the Hakenrichters cook, no one talked of its being a fine thing to serve their and the certificate a bank-note. Zar and their country. No one thought of interpos- After all this business was over, which occupied ing the slightest veil between them and the real hours in reality, however brief in description, there truth. On the contrary, they were made to feel, in ensued fresh copying of registers, noting down of every way that levity and insolence could dictate~ names, describing of persons, and other devices for that a Russian soldier was a thing too utterly value- securing the chief ends of Russian law, viz., the less in the eyes of his superiors for them to lighten waste of time and consumption of paper. Mean- the anxious countenances before them, for one mo- while the poor men, their numbers diminished and ment, with the most distant hint to the contrary. their risk increased, stood by with anxious hearts All the crown evidently wanted was the strength and haggard countenances, waiting till the myste- of their bodies; their feelings were to be as little noes scratching of pens and dusting of sand should studied as their consent. come to an end. They did not know that the They were now all desired to come forward in crown required to be certified of a mans being de- turn as they were called, put their hands quickly formed inside, on five separate sheets of stamped into the jar, draw out a card, and not look at it till paper. all had drawn. This is not always the regular At length a jar was brought in by the Disponent plan, but it suited their judges ideas of order and and placed before the Hakenrichter, with a little paper discipline, and by this means none would be spared parcel. This he opened, examined the cards it con- his share of the anxiety. tamed leisurely before the whole party, as an unfeel- The first summoned was a short, thickset man ing operator would his instruments, counted them, with a frame of muscular strength, and a wide capa- put them into the jar, shook them up, and placed the cious brow, which was now knit with a fearful vessel on a low table. The jar was a common spirit of determination. He was the father of two earthen one, the mouth just wide enough to admit children. He came forward with a firm stepput the human arm, and too deep for any light to be his arm in, drew it out in a moment, and then thrown on its contents. As there were two recruits stood motionless, his hand hanging by his side with to be taken, Nos. 1 and 2 were the fatal hot, the card clenched in it. There is something repugnant and intolerable to The second was a mere awkward peasant, who the mind in the thought that the fate of a mans looked foolish and embarrassed, and laughed as whole life should be made dependent on the choice much from excess of boorishness as of fear. But of a little card. It is less derogatory and bitter to the color fled from his face as his hand entered the the heart to he m~ de to suffer from the tyranny, jar, and then returned again in a painful glow be- caprice, or carelessness of another, than from the hind his tanned and unshaven skin, as he dropped apparent results of our own will in a matter where the hand containing his fate by his side. neither reason, knowledge nor experience can avail. The third was not remarkable in manner or ap- That the providence of the Almighty is linked with pearance. He was a spare long-made man, with every trifle that befalls us, it is our great privilege reddish hair and common features. His gentle eye and duty to believe: at the same time, to be always and quiet manner might have been taken for the attaching great ends to trifling occurrences is both national apathy of mind, for he dipped for the card unwise and unfeasible, and those who fancy they with a composure which seemed to proceed more do so are far more liable to spend their lives in from habit than effort. But as he returned to his the excitement of a perpetual lottery, than in the place a sigh burst from the very depths of his composure of a perfect trust. We may approach heart, which told of feelings you would have been to draw for a great stake with the firmest convic- thankful to have thought him without. tion that no such thing as chance exists; but still it It was now the turn of the fourth to draw. He is more than human to bear in mind that while the was quite youngnot above nineteen, and had hand is shilly-shallying between three or four scraps been, from the first, in the most pitiable and abject of paper of the same size, willing without a will, state of fear. He looked weak in mind, and puny and choosing without a choice, that the God of the in bodytoo much so even for his average peasant whole universe is presiding over the decision. lot in lifefar more for that which not the strongest There is nothing in the whole economy of our lives constitution can stand unimpaired. His name was in which He calls upon his creatures to act, even in called, but he held back, the tears running down the most trifling circumstances, without some kind his cheeks, and burst out into loud sobs as the sol- of a reason, in the shape of duty, faith, or experi- diers, by the order of the officer, took him to the ence, to guide them, and it is a wicked system, table and forced his hand into the jar. But there it THE DISFONENT. lay. The Hakenricher roared to him in Lettish; the officer in Russian; and then the Disportent came forward with his stick. The boy saw the actiongave a piercing screamdrew his hand instantly out, and let the ominous card fall on the tloor. it fell with the blank side upwards; the soldiers crammed it into his hand, and he was left to totter back to his place where Marts kind voice and arm for a moment lent him support. But it was now Marts turn. lIe had been pain- fully occupied with the last scene, and it must be oxvned the strong young man started, and felt his strength depart from him as his name was called. But it was only for a moment. He strode to the tablelaid one great fist heavily upon it to steady himselfplunged the other into the jar, and fell back to his place with the card in his grasp. The whole of this proceeding was so rapid, and tue lookers-on had been so involuntarily interested to see how this fine-looking fellow would behave Ian had never taken his cyes from himthat a short pause ensued before the next name was called. It was the Brautwerbers, who stood next by Mart, and seemed to have derived strength from his very vicinity. But Mart dared not seem even to look at him nowfor he knew how unnerving is the slightest act of sympathy, when strength is being gathered to endure the reverse. But he did steal a glance, and was thankful to see him stand firm, and walk steadily to the table. The arm, however, fell into the jar with effort. Poor man! it was his last! he fell back dead fainted, and Mart caught him in his arms. There was no air in that room of torture, with those stifling double windows, and the hot tears, fevered cheeks, and knit brows on which they had thrown light. But there was no time for sentiment. Juhaun was l~id flat on the flor. Keep guard, shouted the ~~fficer; and two soldiers marched up to the head nd foot of the pale inanimate figure. All sham, said the Fiakenrichier, without one relenting expression iii nis hard face. Has he got the ticket? It is in his hand, said Mart, lifting up the close-shut fist. All right, said the Hakenrickter; it will be a surprise to him when he recovers. Ha, ha Go back to your place, fellow,go on. Mart drew his ticket out of his breast, where he had thrust it. He would not have anticipated the moment of seeing it for the world, and returned to the melancholy file. The next man now drew; his was comparatively the easiest taskhe had only to take what was left him. The jar was now taken to the officer, who looked into it, and gravely pronounced it empty. Now came the decisive moment. No one could remain indifferent to it, and all eyes were fixed in breathless silence upon the actors in this scene. The Disponents great head looked over the Haken- richters; the officials left their desks, and crowded round; Mart forgot the Brautwerber, who lay as before, and even the poor drilled-down soldiers who stood over him turned their heads, though their bodies remained immovable. The first man cante up and slowly unclenched his fist. It had closed over that hated bit of Russian paper with an iron spring, and never till now re- laxed in its grasp. He looked at it a moment, and his face seemed to unlock too, and then he looked at his judges with an expression of open, bold hatred, as if, like Tell, he had had an arrow in store for them in case the lot had fallen on him. He was safe. The second came up with stooping shoulders and hesitating gait; dropped the card with excess of awkwardness, picked it up, and looked round with a shy, happy laugh. He was safe too. The plot now thickened for the third. The risk was no longer two to seven, but tw~ to five. He stepped forward; by the expression of his face he seemed fully to have made up his mind for the worst; but to any possessing the key to such feel- ings, it would have been evident that it was resig- nation, not apathy, which supported him, lie went up with composurelooked calmly at the card, and then his face expanded with a smile beautiful and touching to look at, and he closed his eyes in prayer. He was safe. The fourth was pitiable for his youth and help- less terror; but his conduct, as we have seen, in- spired no respect. It was suspected that he had already ascertained his own fate, for his tears had never ceased, and he now threw down the card, without looking at it,with a feeble and passionate gesture; then wrung his hands and sobbed pite- ously. He had drawn the fatal No. 1. Take him, said the officer; and two of the soldiers came forward, and placed themselves on each side, while the poor boy turned his red, swollen face beseechingly from one to the other, as if they could let him off. Oh, Mart! it was your turn now. How sick would Annos heart have been, could she have seen you. His was low enough. He felt himself con- demned, and could have put himself at once into the soldiers hands to avoid the unnecessary anguish of looking at his fate. Over and over again had he rehearsed this moment in anticipation, and deter- mined to raise himself above it with words of prayer and feelings of faith. But he remembered nothing; he knew nothing, he heard nothing now except the loud beating of his own heart, through which came the jarring sound of his name like some horrid passage in a dream. He advanced like a desperate manpaused for a momentthe Disponents eye glared demoniacally upon him then lookedand leaped high up from his feet. Was it joy or sorrow? Oh! merciful heaven! it was joy, joyexcess of joy his eyes dilated; his stature expanded; he took one deep breath after another. Then came a gush of intense reli- gious gratitude, and then a sting of self-reproach. Others were suffering, and had still to suffer. The Brautwerber had meanwhile opened his eyes, and raised himself where he laid. Bring him up, bellowed the Hakenrichier. Mart cared for no more orders or prohibitions now~ he was at his friends side, and lifted him as he would have done a child. Juhann turned to Mart with a ghastly smile. You are safe, Mart! look! so am I, and he held up his open hand with the harmless ticket in it. Mart took him with one bound to the table, and displayed the card as if it bad been a jewel of inestimable worth. If ever there was a radiant face, it was his. He seemed for a moment not to know there was another creature in the room, except Juhann and hiuiself. He laid both his hands on the Brautwerbers shoulders, looked down smiling in his face. Juhann! Ju- hann! it s all over. We shall be out of this cursed room soon! It s overdo you hear, man? Oh! those poor fellows. I am ashamed to feel so happy. 80 THE DISPONENT. 81 The last rtian~s lot is already told. He took up all her cares and sorrows, she had never had to hesi his card. tate how to act, or been puzzled what to think; but Do you know what this means l said the to use her own expressive language, she had always Ilakenrichter. been able to see straight into herself, and straight Yes, said the man with a dogged countenance, up to her Godand without that, summer all the I do. I shant have to draw again next year. year round would not make a person happy. An No, said the Hakenrichter; but you 11 have indifferent observer would not perhaps have detected to draw this ; and the hard-hearted man imitated that a heavier weight than usual lay upon her. the click of a musket-trigger. Nobody laughed. She sat without the cottage door, at her spinning- There, soldiers, off with his hair. And the wheel. Wordsworth says soldiers closed upon him. The men now crowded impetuously out. Mart Grief! thou hast lost an ever ready friend, and Juhann first. Mart did not seem to tread this Now that the cottage spinning-wheel is mute ; earth; he felt as if some horrible operation was and truly there is something in that happy medium oversome weary captivity endedsome fatal of the liberty it allows and the attention it requires, spell broken. The common air that met him was which is most soothing to an anxious mind. balm to breathe. Below the steps was a little Anno was meanwhile actively engaged, and crowd of anxious relativesaged parents, brothers, seemed to have chosen this day for a purpose of sisters, wiveswho had been awaiting the result rather rare occurrence among most Lettish house- for hours; and many a touching scene ensued. keepersnamely, for cleaning her house. Ever But Marts eyes were fixed on one. The soldier since Mart had first received the tidings of recruit- was advancing up the stepsthe little boy toddling age she had been putting her little household in by his side; he saw the child in the fathers arms, order; and now Marts clothes were taken out and and then turned away with too full a heart. brushed with many a sigh ;the old dark wooden He was not long left to enjoy such emotions, for boxes, which held their wardrobe, were rubbed by this time the two recruits were brought out, the wooden utensils which held their milk and brei, looking the more woe-begone from the complete or porridge, were washed ;the floor was swept alteration and disfigurement they had undergone. fir-tips strewn, and then Anno went to the stream Their long hairwhich many Livonians regard batheddid up her long hair, and appeared, though with superstitious care, as if, like Samson, their not in holiday garb, yet in one perfectly fresh and strength lay in ithad been lopped and hacked clean. away in the most barbarous fashion; this process The evening sun was declining, the time al- acting twofoldas a badge of the service, and as a ready long past when Mart might reasonably have preventive against desertion. A cry of compassion been expected. Lisos firmness was now fast rose from the crowd as they appeared. It was a giving way; her looks were perpetually wandering shocking and a revolting sight. With us the up the road which would bring her grandson home recruit seems instantly to mount in the scale of so- for better or for worse, and the least movement or ciety; here, they looked like condemned criminals, sound in the distance, no matter in what direction, and felt like them too. Poor fellows! no change in set her withered hand trembling with more than this changeable world can be conceived more total age. and sudden than that they had just undergone. It It was well Anno was too much engrossed with was not that they had simply fallen in estate, or her own occupations to watch those of another; altered in conditiontheir very selves were trans- for the poor old womans wheel intermitted terribly formed. Home, country, language, and religion in its revolutions. Karria Pois was also watching all were gone. They were henceforth to know and as if he knew that something impended of conse- feel nothing they had known and felt before; it was quence to his master. Time passed on. Liso felt, as if their souls had migrated into another state. indeed, what Anno had been spared, but also she But the lots had fallen mercifullythe men were felt what the poor girl had to suffer; for her worst both unmarried, and both young. They would fears were confirmed by the delay, and the sight of each leave a gap in their circle, but neither was the Mart in the distance between two other figures was centre of one. Their late companions now gath- all that presented itself to her imagination. ered round them with earnest expressions of sym- Anno had been seated by her side but had re- pithy. One of the recruits had a brother in the entered the house. Karria Pois now rose, snuffed crowd who had already gone off to give the intelli- the air, and set off at a slow trotthen broke into gence; but the other begged that some one present a heavy gallop, and was soon out of sight. The would undertake this office. His home, or what light was fast waning, when a distant figure ap- had been his home, was five wersts off. It was fully pearedone alone! Liso was afraid to take hope that out of Marts way, but his heart smote him to her heart. The figure drew nearer and nearer, that he should even have waited a moment to see it was Mart, there was no doubtMart alone, whether another would propose, and he instantly striding quickly along. The poor grandmother volunteered. He could bear the thought of his dared hardly look up. But his step was light poor grandmothers prolonged anxiety, with the and, if that did not speak plainly enough, his glad knowledge that the cause of it had passed away. face spoke plainer still; and, if she still feared to As he bounded down the steps he caught the Dis- believe what it would now have been torture to re- ponents eyeit boded him no good; but Mart was linquish, a few sweet words were whispered in her too happy to take in a thought for the future, ear, and the old woman folded her hands, closed Meanwhile the day passed slowly away with the her eyes, and communed with her Maker. two women at Sellenk~ill. Old Liso had that Mart entered the house; Anno was busy pre- habitual piety which covered all the emotions of her paring the evening meal. She had for some days heart with the same garb. She would often say that shrunk from his eye, and now she did not look at the trials of the very poor are of the most merciful him as he came in. Mart was positively embar- kind, for that they required from them nothing be- rassed; his heart was bursting with the weight of vond resignation, patience, and industry; that with her joy as well as his own; he flung off hi~ cap THE DISPONENT. sat down on a bench, fondled the dog, and looked at his wife as she moved to and fin. She was so dejected! How beautifully neat you have made every- thing, Anon ? Auno only gave a sigh in return. But the rain comes in at that corner of the roof; I must mend it: Ill begin next xveek. Anno turned quickly and looked at her husband; there was but little light, but Marts face was radi- ant. Mart! said Anno, her breath rising into a scream, next week? Yes, Anno, yesAnon, I am free. And husband and wife laid in each others arms. The first agony of joy was over; all was ex- plained, but they still stood togetherthe happiest hour of the many happy ones they had spent. You see, my Kasikenrie, (my little cat,) we are not to be separated. You would not take Ian, and he cant take me. We should not have been separated, Mart; I should have gone with you. This was the secret of Annos patience; for this had she set her house in order. But my grandmother? said Mart. God would have cared for her as you said he would for nie. Let s go to her, said mart. CHAPTER VI. THE early winter that followed this autumn was a very trying one; not because it was severefor severity, whether in temperature or authority, hurts no one, if it be but steady ; but, like a real tyrant, it was capricious. To the husbandman of these regions it is always desirable that winter should commence its operations with a good foun- dation of snow. This laid, as much cold may fol- low as will ; the corn is covered over, and his liar- vest is secured. But this autumn much rain fell the waters stood on the low parts of the land, and then came sudden cold, and froze up all the pools, and with them the young corn. Sometimes a curious process of destruction takes placethe blades of young rye are seen just rising above the water; a night of frost spreads a sheet of ice over the surface ; a day of thaw succeeds, and the ex- pansion of the ice itt melting draws up the plants by the roots, aM leaves them floating on the water. Altogether much mischief was done, which the following summer would ton surely reveal, and which the summer itself could not repair; and meanwhile a long winter had to be encountered. Marts fields stood pretty dry, owing to much extra labor in the way of draining ; but old Ton- nos wbi~h lay Iruw, and received little more tillage than just sufficed to put the corn into the ground, suffered terribly ; and, before snow fell, his fields, and many like his, wore that black, withered look which leaves no hope of life in the plants. It was evident that part of the stock of winter corn must be reserved to sow again iii early stimmer, and thus replace what the seasout had destroyed; and that stock soon proved to be very inadequate to the regular demands upon it, far less to any extra ones. The best crops of the preceding summer had been, as we have said, but moderate in return ; the moderate ones wretchedly poor. What there was of the corn, hoWever, had been pronounced to be uncommonly good, and as such able to bear a greater amount of adulteration. But this soon turned out to have been a false idea; and many a fooliati improvident peasant who had rested upon it, as they will do upon any excuse against active ex- ertion, found himself not only in want, but in want earlier than usual. The peasants of this part of the world make tip their minds too passively to suffer every winter, as a necessary concomitant of the season, to take warning for any extreme occa- sion. They are accustomed, before the winter is far advanced, to mix their bread largely with less nourishing materials ; and before the winter is fittally dismissed, to take the fodder from their stinted animals to feed themselves, amtd to unthatch their barns and dwellings to feed them. But this year all these extreme signs of scarcity showed themselves much sooner than is commonly the case, added to much illness among men and animals, attributable to want and unhealthiness of weather combined. I-low utter starvation did not occur would be a wonder to many ; but the Lettish peasantry, like the Scotch, help one another to the utmost (if their power, and thus keep off positive destruction from some, by equalizing the misery among all. The party at Sellenk(ill were tolerably prepared by Marts indttstry to weather a hard season them- selves, and also to help their neighbors through it; and, though this was required to a much greater extent than had been expected, Mart both gave and lent cheerfully, and worked harder and fared harder than usual. His vexatious trials had not ceased. his enemy sought every opportunity to oppress and annoy him ; and it required all the young mans forbearance to fulfil his unjust tasks and keep his temper. It is difficult, however, to ruin a sensible and an industrious man in any line of life, and Marts on- varyitig steadiness seemed to bring even malice to a stand still. The season was arrived also when but little work can be done, or rather, need be done; and when the many hours of darkness en- courage a feeling of slothfulness which is an indul- gence to the indolently disposed, and a relief to the scantily fed. Mart, however,had no pleasure in being idle ; as long as daylight lasted there xv~ s enough for him to do in repairing his house and farming buildings, and in attending to the wants of his domestic animals; and when darkness fell, he might be seen returning with a bundle of small split fresh wood in his handthose catidles of the northern peasantrybeneath the light of which, seated next the great stove, he plied many a do- tuestic handicraft. This was the time when Anon got many a help in various homisehold labors which another husband would have spurned as womati s ~vork ; but there was that about Mart which the meanest occupation could not degrade. lie tniu~ht have helped to hake the bread, or turn the wheel, and hierhaps he sometimes did, and nobody could have called him unmanly. Atino was indeed favored among women. Not only were her own house duties diminished by a strong hand and eased by a sweet tenuper, hut site was spared also all those (tther feudal burdens which fall upon the wonten of these provinces. The same ancient tenure which imposed three days labor itt the week upon Mart, required also from his wife certain days spinuin~ or eardii~g during the winter fur the benefit (if the proprietor of the estateusually performed at the mmtansion- hotuse itself, bitt ow, iii its present uuntettanted condition, at that of the Disponemut. Liso had ful- filled this as lotig as she had been able ; and now it was naturally expected that the young assistant which Mart had taken into his service in the shape 82 THE DISPONENT. 83 of a wife, and who had no family to require her indeed a villain; he knew that he was about to de- attendancenot that this makes any difference fraud the laborer of his hire, and he could deliber. ought to take this duty on herself: but Mart ately cast up figures with a steady hand. After thought differently; he paid another woman in the a little while had elapsed he handed the young coin most acceptableviz., in a small quantity of man a paper, on which he stood debtor for a num- cornto take her place, and Anno never entered her of days work and half-days work which, the Disponents doors. taken at a certain estimate, gave a total of sixteen This and the increasing want around them soon rubles and a half; while on the other side he bore hard upon Marts winter stock; it was obvi- stood creditor for the labor just completed to the ous somethtng must he done to replenish it, or he amount, as we have said, of seventeen rubles, would himself need the help he was giving. Mart thus leaving a difference of half a ruble. This lost no time in considering whether he should eke statement would have pttzzled most; and as for out the remainder by denying it to his neighbors, Mart, he looked at it with the most utter guileless or by adulterating it to themselves: he had no ignorance. Then with an unhiushiug face and idea of feeding Anno upon straw, and so he asked with impudent words, the Disponent explained that for extra work at daily wages. old scores must be paid before new ones ; that it This was quite a novelty here. It was true that was time that the debts to the estate should be dis- a landed proprietor occasionally returned from a charged : and that, in short, these were (lid liabili- tour or residence itt some more civilized and better ties of Marts father which were now raked up, governed land wtth new systems of agricultural whether true or not, to defraud the son. economy, and among the rest with that of labor for Mart was thunderstruck; his mind could not wages; but they left behind them tlte order and understand the villanous manceuvre; such a pro- the justice necessary to preside over such matters, ceeding was unheard of even in this land (If up- and the result only increased the peasants natural pression, and he stood at first more amazed than hatred for innovations. Most of the ignorant indignant. He then tried reason. The Disponeat peasantry could not understand the pros and cons referred hitTn to the books. He tried expostula of such a question ; a few saw that in a country so tion; and the Disponent bid him hegone, for that scattered in population no medium of payment he had not time to listen to the cotuplaints of every could be so itmconvenient as that of money ; and all idle fellow on the estate. Then Mart triedit were perfectly aware that, what with needy mas- went sore against his will, but he ktlew who de- ters and dishonest Disponents, they were likely to pended upon himhe tried to move the brute ; he get little enough even of that. told him that it was a hard year for the poorthat Mart, however, was too clear-minded to be pre- there was nothing but starvation around, and that judiced, armd too young to be cautiousthough his he had others to maintain as well as himself. late experience had taught him something he would And the Disponent replied with his demoniacal gladly have unlearrmtammd when the Disponcnt grin, that as long as he could afford to pay another assented to his request, and allotted him some tim- woman to do his wifes work, he could want for her-felling at a certain rate of payment, he returned nothing. home with a sense of satisfaction which shone in Then Mart flamed up, and a stream of hot irtdig- every feature. nation came boiling from his breast: his words This extra labor was as much as he could get ~vere few, but they hit ftdl at his oppressor. Still through with; he was hearty and robust, and it he spoke as to a manthe wretch answered as required no little solid nourishment to keep up the to a dog, and dared to tell himMart !that if he stren~,th thus taxed. His father-in-law did not fail was insolent he would have him beaten! to tell hitn, with many a characteristic proverb, Good heavens! 11(1w was honest and high that it would answer his purpose just as well to spirited blood, albeit only in the veins of a poor sleep more and eat less ; but Mart hated such Livonian, to bear this, and flow on calmly after it. maxims, and. even granting them trmme, he knew The bad man before him knew not what he had that work Was good for man. his grandmother, provoked. For the tempter was busy at that too, occasionally put in a word of wisdom, and young and injured breastputting bitter for sweet, advised him to have no more dealings than and evil for goodbidding him fell the savage necessary with a man who had shown all the will where he stood, and urgimig lmimn to spring at that to ittjure him, and possessed all the power; but throat which had lied so foully to him. But tile Mart, for once. liffered from her, and said there irritated man was not left to himself at a moment was more to be gained by trust than by can- when all power over self was gone. An unseen tionand we ~vill hope that he was right in the arm interposed, and his was merciftdly stayed. main. Mart flung the half-ruble, which he found, he Mart w