LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 411.3 APRIL, 1852. From the British Quarterly Review. The Ji4fe of John Sterling. By THOMAS CARLYLE. Chapman and Hall. 1851. EVERY mans life is a tragedydeep in interest, varied in struggle, solemn in conclusion. But in the history of the life of most men, no one knows aught of the tragedy save the principal actor. That which his fellows know is no more the tragedy, than the calf-skin is the poem. It is no uncommon fate for ordinary men to be sepultured in still more ordinary biographies. Naturalists tell of a sort of beetle, whose prime object in life appears to he to digthe graves of other nameless flies. He is thought to solace himself, after his labors, by subsisting on the remains which he has entombed; and we believe it is pretty much the same with a certain class of biographers. But here and there, it happens that the biography is so much more remarkable than its subject, that it suggests the old comparison of flies in amber; and, without deeming it necessary to compare Mr. Sterling to the insect, or Messrs. Hare and Carlyle to the inflammable gum, we shall not be far wrong in asserting that two biogra- phies so remarkable have rarely, if ever, been written of one man so little noteworthy. And yet, let us not be accused of speaking lightly of the dead. The memory of John Ster- ling, to those who know him by hearsay or by reading, is like the memory, dim, yet pleasant, of a sweet strain of music. It conveys, not ideas, but emotions: It does not so mnch inform the understanding as impress the heart. There is something profoundly melancholy in the Mezentian union of lively soul and sickly body. There is something to make one tremble in the clearly developed influence which sickness and solitude exercised in confusing the judgment, by confound- ing external facts with internal impressions. The invalid has a gleam of health. He takes a duracy. He exerts himself in all manner of schemes for the good of the parish. His aim is to awaken the minds of the people, to arouse their conscience, to make them feel their own sinfulness, their need of redemption. But the clouds return after the rain. Disease resumes its power. He loses sight of th.e practical object of Christianity, and gropes in a darkness peopled by such ghastly phantasms as Strauss Leben Jesu. Let it not be understood that we lean to the notions of those theorists who charge against the body the weakness or waywardness of the mind who identify sin with disease, or who ascribe peculiar forms of belief to peculiar physical organ- izations. But no one can have suffered under any nervous malady without knowing bow every exter- nal fact and internal emotion is colored by the disease; and it is surely no unlikely supposition that Sterlings constantly recurring illness affected, to a certain degree, a judgment which, not nat- urally strong, seems always to have been to a large extent under the control of his imagination. But without theorizing further on the influence of bodily health on mental soundness, or discuss- ing too closely poor Sterlings claim to two biog ccccxi. LIVING AGE. VOL. XRX XII. 1 raphies, the fact remains that a man to whom attaches no public interest, a man with but slender claims to literary notice, has had his life made the subject of literary labor by two men, each very much his superiors in public notoriety. There is something of the droll in the whole proceeding. We understand that, on Sterlings death, he left, as literary executors, his two chief friends, Archdeacon Hare and Mr. Carlyle; and it is not too much to conclude that a certain jealousy pervaded the mind of each, as to the share the other was likely to take of this sacred trust. The archdeacon was naturally anxious lest the known tendencies of the philosopher of Chelsea should tempt him to work up the materials left behind into a shape exceedingly distasteful to the orthodox feelings and Christian prepossessions of the public. He, no doubt, dreaded that if Carlyle were the sculptor, the statue of his deceased friend would come forth, clad, not in his habit as he lived, with something of the garb and appearance of a minister of the Church of England, but girt with the dress, as it might happen, of a Parsee, or an Indian, or a Scandinavian heroworshipper of the Sun, of Vishnu, or of Thorbut with nothing of the semblance of Christianity about him. Accordingly, Archdeacon Hare used every ex- ertion to secure to himself the office of dealing as he might with these questionable materials, and he put forth two rather corpulent volumes, which we have noticed in a former number.* It was not within the sphere of our purpose to discuss the propriety or prudence of Archdeacon Hares con- duct in printing, as he does, with very feeble com- ments, expressions of opinion, on theological svb- jects, which are totally at variance from the doctrines and articles of that church of which he is. a prominent officer; but there can be no doubt that. his object was, not to put forth his friends religious. peculiarities in strong relief, but, as far as possi-. ble, to do the reverse; always bearing in mind, that love to his memory was not altogether to. swamp the fact of his friends theological history,. and always having before him the dread of a rival Life, on Pantheistic principles, from the other executor. In this affectionate object Mr. Hare has utterly failed; and he has brought down upon the memory of John Sterling a storm of denunciation, which,. while levelled particularly at him, has not spared his biographer, and has brought before the public eye, as accomplices in Sterlings theological criminality, persons who had scarcely even heard. of the opinions which they were accused of abetting. Injustice of every kind is sure to defeat itself, says the archdeacon, in speaking of a very different subject, and we are not sure that a better illustra- tion could be devised for the principle, than that which is presented by the history of this unfor- tunate biography. Injustice is done to the notorious heterodoxies of Sterling, by the ill. judged affection of a friend who ought not to have been his biographer. The benevolent trick is. detected; biographer and biographee are alike. British Quarterly Review, No. XV., Art. 8. CARLYLE S LIFE OF STERLING. denounced, and the imp of neologyso carefully bottled by the one executorwhen the other executor draws the cork, expands into a gigantic demon of Pantheism. At the same time, we do not altogether under- stand this proceeding on the part of Mr. Carlyle. In the second paragraph of his Life occurs the following passage After some consultation on it, (Sterlings dying message,) and survey of the difficult and delicate considerations involved in it, Archdeacon Hare and I agreed that the whole taste of selecting what writings were to he reprinted, and drawing up a biography to introduce them, should be left to him alone ; and done without interference of mine, as accordingly it was, in a manner surely far superior to the common, in every good quality of editing ; and visibly every- where bearing testimony to the friendliness, the piety, perspicacity, and other gifts and virtues of that eminent man. The italics in this quotation are ours, and we ask, how, in the name of common honesty, dares Mr. Carlyle to come forward with his biography,. after thus pledgin~, himself to leave the task to Archdeacon Hare? He finds no fault with the manner in which the task was performed on the contrary, he gives it quite as much praise as it deserves. He does not allege that any important facts were left out. In truth, the whole life is so barren of incidents, that he is compelled to eke out a whole chapter with the details of a hurricane in the island of St. Vincent, and three whole chapters with the tale of Sterlings connexion with a mad- cap expedition of Spanish exiles, which ended in a fusillade by which a relation of his perisheda passage in his history, by the hye, which Sterling neVer could bear to hear talked of, and which the archdeacon disposes of in a few lines. Well, then; why did Mr. Carlyle persist in writing this most unnecessary hook? Simply because one of his correspondents, who is evidently a person whom our author sees every morning when he shaves that cynic beard of his, has discovered that Hares book has a sin which is ruinous to his task as biographer; and this sin is, that he takes up Sterling an a clergyman merely. Now this statement is aimply untrue, as any one may see who chooses to wade through the grim dulness of the archdeacons pages. But what if true it were? It can never excuse the dishonesty of Mr~Carlyle in first pledging himself to leave the task of biog- rapher and editor to his friend, and then, because Sterling was not made quite enough of a heathen to please him, writing another Life himself. This correspondent dodge is a very contempt- ible way of escaping the personal responsibility which must adhere to statements of opinion made in one s own name, and professedly from one s own pen. Surely a man like Mr. Carlyle, holding so high a place in English literature, and putting on the brave in appearance so often, might muster up courage to say the thing himself, or should leave it altogether unsaid. But our author would not seem to be capable of seeing the meanness and poltroonery of this trick. For he hegan with it in Sartor Resartus, the first piece of goods exposed for sale by him on his .own account; and here, in his last vendible commodity, it comes upon us as boldlf as everworn indeed into a dinginess and threadbare- ness, that could hardly be matched by the oldest hackney~coach in London some thirty years ago, but as incapable as that four-wheeled cojicern of blushing for the service it has seen. Whenever a piece of anti-christianism or of anti-theism more spicy than usual comes across him, it is felt that. it would not do for Thomas Carlyle to say that. The probable cost, in such case, would be sundry in- conveniences in the way of the profitable and re- spectable, which our author is by no means eager to encounter. So straiuhtwa a y, speaker is in- vented, in the shape of an old manuscript, or of a person with some outlanc~sb name; or else the stale newspaper fashion of our own correspondent is resorted to. And thus what the philosopher would fain have said, but dared not, is said in para- graphs marked by commas stretching conspicuously from top to bottom down the margin. The reader pauses as he reads, waxes warm, boles thunder at Mr. Carlyle, who, having forecast of the explosion, deems it enough to say, with a certain guileless and honorable ancient Thou canst not say I did it. The least endurable among shams is a sham brave- rywhen will the hero of Chelsea have done with it? In the case now before us, the words which our author puts into the mouth of his pseudo-correspond- ent have nothing of the heterodox in them; they are merely such as he might well be inclined to disown, as being so absurd and unintelligible; and secondly, because, if susceptible of any meaning, the meaning is most graceless and unbecoming A pale, sickly shadow in torn surplice, is pre- sented to us here, weltering be~vildered amid heaps of what you call Hebrew old clothes ; wrestling with impotent impetuosity to free itself from the baleful imbroglio, as if that had been its one func- tion in life. Now what does the correspondent mean by this sentence? Evidently that the struggle of an earnest mind to reconcile faith and reason, the voice of Scripture and the echo of philosophy, is of so contemptible a character that it is to be spoken of in language which might describe a quarrel bet~veen two Jews in Rag-fairwhile the belief which in all ages and all conditions has smoothed the pillow of the dying, and caused many a timid woman to gaze on deathhorrible death, with courage, tiny, with exultation, is to he sneered at by a man who calls himself a phibosopberan acute, dispassionate, unprejudiced, earnest thinker as a baleful imbroglio. Did we think Christianity a fiction, our impression is, that we should feel obliged to pity the man who could speak of it, or of the questions with which it concerns itself, in such drunken phrase as this. Sterlings two hiographers seem to have been his chief friends, at least towards the close of his life, and exercised upon his opinions a kind of an- tagonistic influence. But the Abriman of Chelsea had clearly carried it hollow against the Ormuxd of Herstmonceux ; and hence, for one reason among many, Mr. Carlyle could not be satisfied with the rival biography. And yet, on his own principles, it is surely an ungracious task to attempt to prove that the friend with whom he had walked in near acquaintance- ship for many years, and who is now gone from him forever, felt when he left him that he was, to use his own melancholy words, treading the com- mon road into the great darkness. If he bad suc- ceeded in persuading the ductile nature of his dis- ciple that the world was filled with abysses of conflicting disbelief, and sham-belief, and Bedlam delusion, (p. 9,) that the old spiritual highways 2 CARLYLE S LIFE OF STERLING. 3 and recognized paths to the eternal, are now all kind than the portrait of Coleridge? Coleridge torn up and flung in heaps, submerged in unuttera- sat on the hrow of Highgate hill, in these years, ole boiling mud-oceans of hypocrisy and unbelieva- looking down on London and its smoke tumult, like bility, of brutal living atheism, and damnable dead a sage escaped from the inanity of lifes battle; putrescent cant; supposing him to have assured attracting towards him the thoughts of innumerable his pupil of all this, is there anything so triumph- brave souls still engaged there ; the ascription vo antly satisfactory in the success, that he must needs him of a magician character; the purring softness trumpet it forth long after the poor object of his of the sneer as to his knowing the secret of believ- wayward powers has gone from his side into that ing by the reason what the understanding future, where the consequences of present error may had been obliged to tbrow out as incredible; the be far other than our philosopher supposes! In this birds-eye view of London, which makes Highgate view there is a Mephistopheles feeling running and Hampstead hills so remarkable; the personal through the whole volume, which we are at a loss sketch of face, manner, walk, tones, to the very to understand except on the authority of a much older snuffle; the raciness of the quotations of his dis- volume, which teaches us that men are sometimes courseall are inimitable. Not less delicious is surrendered to the delusions they have chosen. the quiet rehearsal of the vast promises and null Some simple folk have been pleased to see, in the performances of the inspired dreamer. Still such narrative of~ rebdeacon Hare, that the gifted youth, sentences as the following do not carry immediate John Sterling, may be regarded as having had some conviction : What the light oJ your mind, which goodsome Christian thing in him even to the last. is the direct inspiration of the Almighty, pronounces Whereupon, forth comes Mr. Carlyle, who, with incrediblethat, in Gods name, leave uncredited; all the dexterous handling he can bring to the sub- at your peril do no try believing that. Leaving ject, endeavors to show that it was not so; that the out of the discussion the question what is meant by seeming Christianity of his friend was only seeming the light of your mind, the exhortation contained at best, and that at the last every vestir,e of that in this oracular sentence is somewhat obscure, for obsolete affair had vanished from hitn. As our it is not explained how under any circumstances amiable manipulator makes his way towards this there can be the slightest temptation to believe that conclusion, he looks toward the disappointed ones which the faculty wherewith we believe pronounces with the kind of glee upon his muscles for which to be unworthy of credit. Mr. Carlyle takes a bad we shall not try to find an adjectivesaying, So fourpenny bit in change from the cad of the Chelsea much, good people, for your pious John Sterling; omnibus; the light of his mind pronounces the you see what I did for hun in that way ! In the coin to be sp& rioos not questionable, but down- whole history of infidel literature, we know of right pewter :~it surely is most unnecessary to nothing to exceed this. Yet this is the man whom exhort the philosopher in Gods name to refuse some Christian ministers can be vain to reckon to take it. The human mind may err, the light among their friends and familiar acquaintance; which illuminates it in its search for truth may and this is the book, too, which some of the said sometunes fail, so that even in cases where a deci- ministers can recommend to the youth under their sive judgment has been given, it is not impossible influence ! We wish we could believe in the ex- that it may be a mistaken one; but the common tinction of the race called wolves in sheeps cloth- case is that where the judgment is not given at all, of this nature, we m ingwe wish we could regard phenomena of this and in cases ust surely appeal complexion as unknown even among professed evan- to that probability which is the guide of life, and gelical nonconformists. weigh the decisions to which others with superior But a closer investigation of Archdeacon Hares light to ourselves have come, before we conclude Lifeof Sterling will serve to explain the reason either on theone side or the other. which induced Mr. Carivie to follow with his sup- Mr. Carlyle, among other of his many peculiar- plement. Pantheism, oi~ Carlyleism, or Nihilism, ities, has the peculiarity of throwing out, in a or whatever we may call the creed which consists word, what is either a monstrous fallacy, or the in believing that no creed is possible, and that result of a long train of patient investigation none of the many things we are in doubt about, rightly conducted. A. remarkable instance of this and need to have demonstrated and rendered prob- habit is to be found in his chapter on Coleridge. able, can by any alchemy be made a religion for In his peculiar Lemprieres Dictionary vein, be us, is no sure preservation against a very vulgar talks of Coleridge as a modern Ixion and ascribes failing, the failing of vanity. Now, it does so to him the parentage of strange centaurs, spectral happen that the name of Carlyle is only twice men- Puseyzsms, monstrous illusory hybrids, and ecelesi-. tioned by Archdeacon Hare in the whole of his astical chimeras, which now roani the earth in a book, o far as we can discover, and in the few in- very lamentable manner ! We will not quarrel stances in which it occurs in quotations from Ster- with the mythology of the passage, although Hesiod hogs letters and papers given in the Life might have been at issue as to the family tree of eight we think in allfour at least are accompa- Chimera, who, if we mistake not, was daughter of nied by very questionable annotations : Inade- the Serpent,* not of Ixion; for we should be ex- quacy of Carlyles views ; his Chartism, full ceedingly sorry to take spectral Puseyism out of of inconsistencies and fallacies ; his Heroes, such good company; and yet, such is our distrust on the whole, more free from delusive paradox of Mr. Carlyles opinion, when any theological than his other works ; Thirlwalls History, topic comes to be discussed, that we had rather not superior to all in English for depth and compass take even this genealogical theory for granted. Is unlessprepare to laughCarlyles. Nine iliw it not rather the case that Coleridge and Puseyism lachrymce! Here is the true cause of this Opus are codrdinate developments of one principle, or m jus. Bitt how strange that such a feeling should rather of one class of tendencies, and, accordingly, be indulged by a man who cannot write on any sub- stand to each other not in the position of cause and ject without exercising a mesmeric influence on his effect? readers! The thoughtful youth of England, when the lull What, for example, can be more perfect of its See Ilesiods Theogony, v. 319. CARLYLE S LIFE OF STERLING. which succeeded the great continental war gave opportunity to look around and within, could not but feel dissatisfied with the dead condition of the Church of England. But there is a tendency in human natureone of its noblest tendenciesto refer things to principles, and to assume that great facts like the Establishment are not founded on mere mockeryand delusion, but rest upon a principle of some sort or other, however much the wood, hay, stubble, of the super- structure may have concealed the principle upon which it was founded. Hence the eagerness with which men like Sterling listened to Coleridges theory of a church. Hence, again, the earnest in- genuity which has succeeded so far in transforming the hard, formal orthodoxy of the old high-church school into such developments as are presented at Wells-street and St. Barnabas. But the worst of it is, that we never know what is the ground-work of these apophthegmatic reve- lations. It may be a train of reasoningit may be, to use Mr. Carlyles own polite words thrice refined pabulum of transcendental moonshine. And when we get to more important subjects than either Puseyism or the Colerid,ian philosophy, the question deepens and becomes one of anxious inter- est. Who told Mr. Carlyle that the course of pious genius towards the eternal kingdom~~ is grown more dark and abstruse than in the days of our fathers What process of argument has given him the conclusion, that Parkness and the mere shadow of death envelop all things from pole to pole; and in the raging gulf-currents, offering us will-of-wisps for loadstarsintimating that there are no stars, nor ever were, except certain old Jew ones which have now gone out l We may ask these questions. We may surmise that Mr. Carlyles love of the style of Jean Paul has become a kind of monomania, so that when he begins a sentence, after the manner of Richter, he forgets everything except the picturesque. But there are many, and those from the classes which sway the worlds opinion, who will not look so closely into the matter, and ~vho, when Mr. Carlyle tells them that the old Jew stars are gone out, will jump to a conclusion of a description far from harmless. If Mr. Carlyle were a theological, or even a philo- sophical writerif he had carefully enunciated the results of an elaborate process of reasoning, and that elaborate process of reasoning clearly pointed to the result which in these words he proclaims with about as much reverence as a flying newsman roaring through the streets the coup-ddtat, or the resignation of Lord Palmerston ;if he could refer to a well-digested and intelligible argument in support of his views, and having the authority of his great name, there might be some excuse for this sort of writing; but it is really beneath the dignity of a man of his literary reputation, to cast insinuations, and throw out hints, aimed at the very foundation of Christianity, without having the manliness to give plain reasons for the opinions which he is evidently afraid to avow. It was thus with Gibbonhe never reasoned, he only sneered. He never gave you proofshe only insinuated falsehood, without descending to the cost of proof. Our older Gibbon has had his reward, and our modern one will have his also. It is not now known, says Mr. Carlyle, in pursuing his illustration of the oblivious baseness of the age in which we live, That none or all of the many things we are in doubt about, and need to have demonstrated and rendered probable, can by any alchemy be made a religion for us; but are and must continue a baleful, quiet or un- quiet, Hypocrisy for us ; and bringsalvation do we fancy? I think it is another thing they will bring and are, on till hands, visibly bringing, this good while! This sentence is hard to construebeing a pure specimen of the Hieratic Carlyleebut being in- terpreted, we believe its author to mean, that the great truths on which religion most be founded, and an acknowledgment and appreciation of ~vhich must be prior to all religion, are truths which do not admit of syllogistic verification, but stand more intimately connected with mans consciousness than any formal argument can possibly do. But these words will unfortunately bear a very different meaning, and one which strikes at the root of all historical evidence as applied to Christianity. The historical facts of Christianity are not the religion they do not bring salvation to us ; but unless we are enabled to combine the fundamental truths of mans moral consciousnesstruths which Mr. Carlyle considers to be prior to all argumentwith the historical facts of the religion ; unless we can see first the necessity of salvation, and secondly, the truth of the historical assertion that Jesus is the Christ, it is impossible that our religion can go one step beyond deism. The claims of Christianity to the acceptance of mankind are not to be disposed of by an indirect assertion forming one clause of a paragraph, the direct object of which is a denuncia- tion of the darkness, cowardice, and ob- livious baseness of the age. We should account it a great crime to bring railing accusations against any man, but specially so against a man to whom the literary world is under such obligations as Mr. Carlyle. But we can- not help thinking that the habit in which he seems more and mote to indulge, of snarling whenever he can get an opportunity at a faith which he cannot but wish true, is fUlowing the rule of habit, and growing stronger by indulgence. There is what we deem a very melancholy instance of it to be found in the narrative before us. (Part ii., c. x., p. 278.) He is relating an instance of self-devotion in a Cornish miner, which had roused Sterlings genial nature into very praiseworthy exertion. In a certain Cornish mine, siiid the newspapers, duly specifying it, two miners, deep down in the shaft, were engaged putting in a shot for blasting they had completed their affair, and were about to give the signal for being hoisted up. One at a time was all their coadjutor at the top could anage, and the second was to kindle the match, and then mount with all speed. Now it chanced while they were both still below, one of them thought the match too long tried to break it shorter ; took a couple of stones, a flat and a sharp, to cut it shorter ; did cut it of the due length; but, horrible to relate, kindled it at the same time, and both were still below ! Both shouted vehemently to the coadjutor at the windlass, both sprang at the basket; the windlass man could not move it with both. Here was a moment for poor miner Jack, and poor miner Will! Instant, horrible death hangs over bothwhen Will generously resigns himself; Go aloft, Jack, and sits down. Away; in one minute I shall be in heaven. Jack bounds aloft; the explosion instantly follows, bruises his face as he looks over ; he is safe above ground :and poor Will? Descending eagerly, they find Will, too, as if by miracle, buried under rocks which had arched themselves over him, and little injured ; he, too, is brought up safe, and all ends joyfully, say the news- papers. .4 So far the tale; now for the comment of the philosopher who hates cant Such a piece of manful promptitude, and salutary human heroism, was worth investigating. It was in- vestigated; found to be accurate to the letterwith this addition and explanation, that Will, an honest, ignorant, good nran, entirely given up to .Miethodism, had been perfect in the faith of assurance ; certain that he should get to heaven if he died ; certain that Jack would not, which had been the ground of his decision in that great moment. The Methodist hero has a subscription made for him, and Mr. Carlyle ends by telling us that he is a prosperous, modest dairyman, thankful for the upper light and sqfety from the wrath to come. The italics are ours; and we think we may fairly ask, if this man had been a Buddhist or a Mahommedan, should we have had these sneers about ignorant goodness, and safety from the wrath to come B We believe not; and perhaps, also, Mr. Carlyle will tell us whether he thinks it his duty to carp at convictions the truth of which he can- not gainsay l and to cast ridicule on that which is either solemn matter of belief, or, at all events, matter not discussed so far as to lead to philosophi- cal indifferentisni in the case of nine out of ten of his readers Safety from the wrath to come. Awful words! Eternity behind us and eternity before; a consciousness of guilt ; a premonition of punishment ; a certainty that we too must go the common road into the great darkness ;and this apostle of the new creed standing by to light us on a way, which is to him as great a blank as to our- selves, with that miserable lucifer match of his, in the shape of a small joke, which goes out in foul- ness, and leaves the darkness as deep and more noisome than before! And this gibing about such things, and at such momentsthis is wisdomthe new, the better philosophy! There is but one feature more to notice in this grievous book, and that is, the selection of letters. The first letter which appears as written to the biographer, is dated very shortly after the begin- ning of the acquaintance, and turns entirely on Sartor Resartus, which had then been just pub- lished. It is, in fact, devoted to the biographer, and only interesting so far as it shows what Sterling thought of him. It is pretty evident, however, that the biographer thinks the public will be interested to know what Sterling did think of him; although, perhaps, opinions of this nature would figure as well in a life of Carlyle by Sterling, were such a thing possible, as in a life of Sterling by Carlyle. Most of the remaining letters have not much to interest the general reader, and for the most part contain the ordinary staple of a gossiping and friendly cor- respondence. But the last which is printed is one of a very peculiar character. It is dated Aug. 10, 1844, about five weeks before death put at rest the active brain and affectionate heart of the writer. The letter is evidently written under pressure. It is a message of farewell, but not the free and un- restrained expression of feeling which in the case of an intimacy like that of Sterling and Carlyle, would have been only what might be looked for at so solemn a juncture. To Thomas Carl yle, Esq., Chelsea, London. Hillside, Ventuor, Aug. 10th, 1844. Mv DEAR CARLYLEFOr the first time for many months it seems possible to send you a few words: 5 merely, however, for remembrance and farewell. On higher matters there is nothing to say. I tread the common road into the great darkness, without any thought of fear, and with very much of hope. Cer- tainty, indeed, I have none. With regard to you and me I cannot begin to write; having nothing for it but to keep shut the lid ofthose secrets with all the iron weights that are in my power. Towards me it i~ still more true, than towards England, that no man has been and done like you. Heaven bless you! If I can lend a hand when THERE, that will not be wanting. It is all very strange, but not one-hun- dredth part so sad as it seenis to the standers-by. Your wife knows my mind towards her, and will believe it without asseverations. Yours to the last, JOHN STERLING. On higher matters there is nothing to say. Nine years and a half of constant intercoursethe intercourse of philosopher and scholar, of tutor and pupiland, at the end of all, when the scholar is looking over the brink of the precipice respecting which he has so often speculated, he has nothing to say to the tutor who has been so long inculcating the encouraging doctrine, that the old spiritual highways and recognized paths to the Eternal are all submerged in unutterable mud oceans of hypoc- risy and unbelievability, of brutal living atheism and damnable dead putrescent cant. Surely it is marvellous that this should be the letter which the tutor chooses to print! The pupil cannot enter into the discussion of the connexion which had existed between them. He keeps shut the lid of those secrets with all the iron weights in his power. What secrets ~But he cannot help look- ing down the face of the cliff. If I can lend a hand when THERE, that will not be wanting. One might smile at the promise, were it not so sad. The poor human soul, whirled down the resistless surges of necessity, what can he avail to help his fellow, following hard after him, wrapt by the next billow, slave of the same tremendous fate l But we will riot leave the dying man under the impression which this letter would convey. Let us think of it as of the half-ludicrous sacrifice from the death-bed of Socrates. Let us leave the paganizing biographer, and turn to the pages of him who has risked much and suffered much in endeavoring to christianize his hero. From Archdeacon Hare we learn that On the 16th September there was i~ great and sudden increase of weakness, which convinced him and those around him that the end was at hand. In this conviction, he said, I thank the all-wise One. his sister remarked, the next day, that he was unusually cheerful. He lay on the sofa quietly, telling her of little things that he wished her to do for him, and choosing out books to be sent to his friends. On the 18th, he was again comforted by letters from Mrs. Trench and Mr. Mill, to whom he took pleasure in scribbling some little verses of them- selves. Then writing a few lines in pencil, he gave them to his sister, saying, This is for you ; you will care more for this ! The lines were Could we but hear all Natures voice, From glowworm up to sun, T would speak with one concordant sound, Thy will, 0 God, be done ! But hark, a sudden, mightier prayer From all mens hearts that live, Thy will be done in earth and heaven, And Thou my sins forgive! CARLYLE S LIFE OF STERLING. GIITZLAFF S LIFE OF TAOIJ-KWANG. These were the last words he wrote. He murmured over the last two lines to himself. He had been very quiet all thnt day, little inclined to read or speak, until the evening, when he talked a little to his sister. As it grew dark, he appeared to be seeking for something, and, on her asking what he wanted, said, Only the old Bible, which I used so often at Herstmonceux in the cottages, and which generally lay near him. A little later his brother arrived from London, with whom he conversed cheerfully for a few minutes. He was then left to settle for the night. But soon he grew worse; and the servant summoned the family to his room. lie was no longer able to recognize them. The last struggle was short; and before eleven oclock his spirit had departed.i We have thought it right to bring Mr. Carlyles Life of John Sterling hefore our readers, not from the intriiisic interest which it possesses as a biography, but in order to protest against this sideway attempt to preach a gospel which is any- thing but good news to those who hear it. If Mr. Carlyle, instead of indulging in loose assertion and overhearing bluster, would take the trouble to sit down and tell us fairly what he thinks about Christianity, we should feel personally much indebted to him, though we doubt whether the world at large would be benefited by the exposi- tion. It would then be time to discuss his whole theory. But so long as he is resolved to do no more than skirmish about the subject, it is impos- sible that we should ourselves do more than attack him in detail. The book appears to us a failure, for the author has not succeeded in giving a view of his subject other than that which had been pre- viously given. All that he has done is to find for himself easy opportunities of indulging in his own peculiar vein, and to rehearse some passages in Sterlings life and correspondence which, per- haps, had better have been buried in his grave. We trust that the harm which the book may do will be confined to the memory of its subject. But we feel that we should not be doing justice to our readers did we not point out to them the inhe- rent vanity, prejudice, and bad taste, which charac- terize this whole affair. Mr. Carlyle cannot suc- ceed in writing what is dull ; but there are, or ought to be, other considerations in the mind of a biographer besides those which appear to have been uppermost in the present publication. From the Spectator. GUTZLAFF S LIFE OF TAOU-KWANG.t FEW Europeans bad better opportunities to give an account of the Chinese than the late Mr. Gntzlaff~ fur he had lived among them many years, and niixed with all classes of society. His voyages along the coast of China, poblished some eighteen years ago, not only made him acquainted with the people of many places, but familiarized him with the physical and moral discomforts of a clumsy trading junk. A long experience as a missionary gave him an insight ~ The sister mentioned in this extract was, we be- lieve, Mrs. Maurice, properly speakin~, a sister of Mrs. Sterling, not of his own. She, too, is gone, leaving no reminiscences hut endearing ones, in the hearts of those by whom she was known while living. t The Life of Taou-kwang, late Emperor of China; with Memoirs of the Court of Pekin including a sketch of the principal Events in the History of the Chinese Em- pire during the last Fifty Years. By the late Reverend Charles Gutzlatl, Author of the History of China, and China Opened, & c. Published by Smith and Elder. into the characters, manners, and literature of the Chinese ; his official employment during the ~var introduced him to the highest rank of mandarins. Perhaps no Jesuit in the palmy days of their mis- sions had ever seen more of the Celestials, or under more varied and interesting circumstances; for the empire appears evidently verging towards dissolu- tion. Mr. Gutzlaffs mind, unluckily, was not well adapted to make the most of his opportunities. With much moral singleness of purpose, his intel- lectual simplicity degenerated into baldness ; if his logic was not defective it was disjointed, so that though his conclusions might be sound they do not always contain the reasons. Illiterate he certainly was not, yet he had the style and manner of an illiterate person. He was an old chronicler minus the quaintness. The Life of Faou-kwang, late Emperor of China, is rather a favorable specimen of Mr. Gutzlaffs pen. Whenever he has to take a comprehensive grasp of imperial affairs, or to exhibit an historical narra- tive on a large scale, his weakness of mind is visi- ble. But his sketches of personal character, or anecdotes and traits of individuals, are clear enough. He contrives to present a good idea of the court of Pekin, and the power of the emperor for personal tyranny ; his utter helplessness for any general purpose of good, let his wishes be what they may. His narrative, bald as it is, impresses very clearly the disorganized state of the empire, arid that it holds together rather from the habit of cohesion, or the absence of an enemy, than from any vital spirit. The late Emperor Taou-kwang was a remarkable man. His father, Keaking, ~vas a violent and licentious tyrant, who surrounded himself with deb- auchees and buffoons, and made short work of any suspected conspirator. The prince had no taste fur the orgies of the court, and absented himself as much as he could. When present, a regard for his own safety increased his natural coldness and reserve it was impossible to discover from his de- meanor whether he approved or disapproved. Ott ascending the throne, at the age of forty, his char- acter was an eiiigma ; but he came out well, dis- playing clemency, magnanimity, and many personal virtues. He published a general amnesty ; he restored his own relations to their rank, whom his father had imprisoned ; he banished all the com- panions and instrunients of the late emperors de- baucheries; he introduced order and simplicity into the courtwhich Mr. Gutzlaff ascribes, and perhaps truly, to his parsimony. His biographer speaks slightingly of his abilities as a ruler ; but the facts hardly warrant stich disparaging censures. Taou-kwang was not an imperial genius, nor did lie restore vitality to the empire ; which, indeed, had he been a genius, he would have failed to do. Powerful as the Chinese emperor may be, he is a slave to the Celestial etiquette and customs. His orders can only be carried into executi(mn by a bureaucracy, more extensive, more organized, and more powerful, than that of Imperial Rome or modern Austria. He probably increased the cor- rmmpth~n of the official class by the sale of offices an abuse to which Louis the Fourteenth was com- pelled to have recourse under a similar financial pressure; and, acting upon traditional do& mas and uniformly false information, he exposed the weak- ness of the empire by his war with England. As soon as the truth reached him, he saw the impolicy of which he had been guilty, and did his best to 6 CHALMERS LIFE AND WORKS OF BURNS. 7 repair his fault by retracing his steps and supporting throughout the whole war; as the state could not the peace party. The manner in which he met the afford to lose another sixty millions in a similar en- national and war faction at court argues a dry humor terprise. as well as a sound judgment. This speech had an extraordinary effect ; every one present was struck dumb. Taou-kwang requested Some of the ministers, in whom the desire for war his servants to come on the morrow, and give a was not yet stifled, and who spoke openly of K decisive reply. But of this nssembly every one was ns a traitor to his country, were highly exasperate silent and grave. The emperor asked the first, who on perceiving the altered fortunes of the favorite now had so violently advocated war, whether he was in the ascendant. They watched their opportunity; ready to form the army, procure the means for its and when it was proclaimed that the British forces had maintenance, and lead forth the troops to victory? left, and that the Canton populace had manfully A very polite excuse, expressing total inability to undertake such a task, was the answer. The second withstood the barbarians, and were even ready to pleaded total ignorance of naval matters, having fight over again the battles of the great emperor and never even seen the sea; the third most enipliatically restore the fortune of the army, they began to murmur declared, that he had not money sufficient for his own at the peace. They held a consultation, at which it was resolved wants, and still less for such vast enterprises ; every one advanced some obstacle or other ; and amidst alt to declare the treaty null and void, to denounce Key- the courtiers, not one was ready to lay down his life ing as a traitor and Elepoo as his abettor, and to proclaim the renewal of the struggle and the utter and property on the altar of the country. defeat of the barbarians necessary to save the honor of the country. Everybody who considered himself The original documents quoted are few in number, a patriot, and to whom the ascendency of the Celestial and brief, as being extracts ; so that the book is Empire was dear, joined in the outcry ; and the deficient in the true Celestial aciness. It pos- subject was duly laid before Taou-kwang in a con- sesses, ho~iever, a good deal of Chinese manner in ference. the matter, and will repay perusal by those who lie was sickeiied of the war, as every man of intelli- wish to get an idea of the court of Pekin and the gence was ; and to recommence the course which he had just now abandoned was repugnant to him ; he, present condition of the empire of China. therefore, resolved to quiet this sanguinary spirit for _____________________________ ever. Having praised the patriotic sentiments of his servants and fully approved of them, he observed, Faoai the Messrs. Harper we have the first of four that so weighty a matter required mature considera- volumes containing Mr. Robert Chambers edition of tion, and begged them, therefore, to appear before him the Lfe and TT/orics of Burns. Mr. Chambers, on the following day. one of the well-known publishers of the EdinburgA~ It was a very august assembly; nobles and man- Journal, would appear to have undertaken a super- darins of the most influential party all attended. erogatory labor in adding another to the many biog- Taou-kwang asked whether they were still resolved raphies of the poet. Currie and Walker, Cunningham upon war? and their answer was, To the entire and Lockhart, are but few of a host of those who have extermination of the English race. Whereupon the felt called upon to illustrate the life of the Ayrshire emperor gave his full assent, agreed to recall Keying, bard; and, one would iuppose, the two latter names to punish Elepoo and all the friends of peace severely, might deter any new adventurer from approaching it. and to r& stablish the deadly enemies of the Barba- Prof. Wilson, however, in his eloquent chapters on rians in their full power. the Genius of Burns, proved that much was still left Every one was delighted with the prospect, and to be said and done in the premises. The biographers, rejoiced in aiiticipation, at the entire overthrow of the one and all, had exhibited unpardonable carelessness cowardly statesmen who had betrayed the birthright in their reception of unauthentic statements prejudi of the Celestial Empire, by acknowledging another cial to the poets reputation. Events of his life, and potentate as the comi~eer of the Son of Heaven, traits of his character, that might have been eluci- The sovereign, perceiving the general sensation of dated, were left in darkness, and that darkness re- joy, continued to harangue his counsellors. You mained as deeded spots upon his reputation. The know, he observed, that all our armies sent path which Christopher North pointed out, Mr. against the hated race have been beaten ; that the Chanibers has followed. He. has travelled, as Scott navy has ceased to exist; that not one general has did when in pursuit of ballads and legends, into every preyed successful, but that all are degraded, or sea- haunt and- abiding-place of the poet; picked up all tenced to severe punishment. It need not be told you the traditional reminiscences afloat among the gentry that the treasury is exhausted, and that we have and peasantry of Ayrshire ; conversed with the nothing to replenish it, as the sources of revenue in youngest sister of Burns, who is still living; and, in all the provinces visited by this dreadful scourge have short, exhausted all possible sources of information. been dried up. To this a general assent was given. The results have been arranged and treated with Still, he added, you are for the resumption of creditable discrimination. One feature, in particular, the war ; and I applaud your zeal in behalf of the is of the highest value ; and that is the recognition honor of my person. To accomplish this an army is of the poems as an essential part of the life of Burns, necessary, and one much stronger and better-ap- and the consequent interweaving of them into the pointed than any of the former ones. I, therefo~e, otherwise dry and unihiumined text of biography. commission you (pointiu~ to some of the most They do much to illustrate matters which have hith clamorous ministers) to raise this army, to drill erto been unnecessarily obscure. For every reason3 the men, and to place yourselves at the head. If you therefore, the present is likely to supersede other fail to exterminate the Barbarians as you propose, editiosis of the poet. Its completeness, mode of ar- - you will have to undergo capital punishment instant- rangement, and convenience of size, will be the best ly. Then, turning towards others, he remarked of recommendations..M Y. Times. that the navy no longer existed, and that a new one, more powerful, and better adapted to cope with the Barbarians than the former, ought to be created with this honorable enterpris6 he charged them. Finally, AnvicE GRArss.We beg to su0gest to the friends he requested that the rich individuals present should of the boa~constrictor, that if the poor creature, since~ not only furnish the money for these undertakings in swallowing the blanket, suffers much pain, a counter-~~ the first instance, but likewise bear the expenditure pane might be tried as a remedy.Punch. B FOREIGN REFUGEES. From the Times, Feb. 9. that this opinion is shared both by the Parliament and FOREIGN REFUGEES IN ENGLAND. the public of this country. With reference to the intimation that exceptional THE following circular despatch from Earl measures of precaution may be taken against Britiak Granville to her majestys ministers at Vienna and subjects travelling abroad, her majestys govern- St. Petersburgh, and her majestys charg~s ment cannot complain if, while insurrection is raging, daffaires at Paris and Frankfort, has just been or its flame is scarcely extinguished, foreign govern- presented, with other papers on the same subject, ments should take precautions against suspected Eng to both houses of Parliament. lish travellers. Her majestys government adhere to the principle Foreign-office, Jan. 13. laid down by Viscount Palmerston in his note of the Mv LORD (Snt)Representations have been made 30th of September, 1848, to the United States envoy at to her majestys government on the part of several this court, in relation to certain citizens of the United European governments, through their representatives States, who had come direct thence to Ireland, then in at this court, on the subject of the proceedings of a state of partial insurrection. foreign refugees now residing in England; and it has Lord Palmerston did not in that note ask for any been urgently demanded that immediate and effective change in the American laws, and he expressly fot- steps should be taken by her majestys government to bore to press the President of the United States with put a stop to those intrigues and conspiracies against representations against the offenders, but merely said the governments of various European powers in which that those who visited a country in a state of insurrec- foreign refugees now in Enolan gaged. ~ d are asserted to be en- tion must take their chance like persons whom curi- osity might lead into a field of battle ; and that the By the existing law of Great Britain all foreigners American government must not take it amiss if citi- have the unrestricted right of entrance and residence zens of the United States who visited Ireland at that in this country ; tnd, while they remain in it, are, time were involved in the consequences of measures equally with British subjects, under the protection of aimed at men of a different description. The meas the law ; nor can they be punished except for an of- ures, however, to which he alluded were taken with fence against the law, and under the sentence of the reference only to persons to whom, sunder the peculiar ordinary tribunals of justice, after a public trial, and circumstances of the moment, suspicion attached. on a conviction founded on evidence given in open But it would be in the highest degree unjust and un- court. No foreigners, as such, can be sent out of this worthy of the enlightened character of any European country by the executive government, except persons government, and wholly unwarranted by the course removed by virtue of treaties with other states, con- pursued by the British government on that occasion, firmed by act of Parliament, for the mutual surrender to put vexatious impediments in the way of unoffend- of criminal offenders. ing English travellers, by way of retaliation for the British subjects, however, or the subjects of any acts of foreign refugees in England. other state residing in this country, and therefore While, however, her majestys government cannot owing obedience to its laws, may, on conviction of consent, at the request of foreign governments, to hem0 concerned in levying war against the govern- propose a change in the laws of England, they would nient of any state at amity with Great Britain, be not only regret, but would highly condemn, any at- punished by fine and imprisonment. Offenders in this tempts on the part of foreign refugees in England to rospect are equally open to prosecution by individuals excite insurrection against the governments of their or by the government, respective countries. Such conduct would be con- Measures in the form of alien acts have been at dif- sidered by her majestys government ns a flagrant ferent times resorted to by the British legislature, by breach of the hospitality which those persons enjoy. which the power of expelling foreigners, in case of The attention of her majesty government will con- necessity, has been conferred on the executive govern- tinue to be directed to the proceedings of suspected ment; but such powers, even when asked for only for foreign refugees in this country, and they will en- the maintenance of internal tranquillity, have been re- deavor by every legal means to prevent them from garded by the people of this country with jealousy, abusing the hospitality, so libertilly accorded to them The general hospitality thus extended by our insti- by the British laws, to the prejudice of countries and tutions to all who choose to come to England has from governments in amity and alliance with Great time to time been the means of affording a secure asy- Britain. lum to political refugees of. 11 parties, many of them You will communicate a copy of this despatch to the illustrious in rank and position. Among them may be secretary of state. mentioned kings and princes of the two branches of I am, & c., the Bourbon family and the prime ministers of France GRANVILLI5. and Austria. It is obvious that this hospitality could not be ~ From the Times, 9th Feb. freely given if it were not so widely extended. If a dis- When Lord Granville took the seals of the cretionary power of removing foreigners were vested in foreign-office in December last, one question of con- the crown, appeals would be constantly made by the siderable delicacy and importance was pending be- dominant party in foreign countries for the expulsion tween her majestys government and the four lead- of their political opponents who might have taken ing states of the continent. As early as the 29th refuge in Great Britain. Monarchical governments October the French ambassador had addressed a mi0ht object to republican refugees, and republican diplomatic note to Lord Palmerston, enclosing governments might object to royalist refugees; and it what he termed evidence of a permanent state of would be difficult to defend such hospitality, which conspiracy against all the governments of Europe, would then be founded upon favor, and not upon equal laws. anutn at of France in particular, among the or- It is~the earnest wish of her majestys government ganized revolutionary committees of the political to pro te as far as in their power the peace, order, refugees in London, and calling upon the British and prosperity of every country with which they are government to put an end to the open aggressions in friendiy liance; but they do not think that any of these conspirators. This evidence consisted of groundexists which would justify them, on the present a French police report, referring to a number o~ occasion, in applying to the legislature for any extraor- absurd publications and incei~diary schemes, said to dinary or ~further powers itt reference to foreigners have originated with Mazzini, Ledru-Rolhin, and resident in England, and they have no reason to dbubt I other fugitives under the protection of the laws of FOREIGN REFUGEES. England. On the 9th of December, and conseqtrent- ly very shortly after Lord Palmerstons interview with the Finsbury and Jslington deputations, which had stimulated the hopes of the foreign refugees in London, a more formal application was made to the secretary for foreign affairs by the envoys of Austria, Prussia, and Russia. These powers alleged that they were under the necessity of again calling the serious attention of her majestys government to the enormous abuse which the political refugees in England make of the hospitality generously afibrded them ; and though they disclaimed any intention to dispute the right of England to exercise hospitality within the limits of international law, they reprpbated the disposition to cover with this pretext attempts again st the internal tranquillity of friendly govern- ments. It is obvious that the language held by Lord Palmerston at home, and the excessive suspi- cions entertained of his policy abroad, had aggra- vated these remonstrances ; for, in addition to the positive evil of which neighboring powers had some reason to complain, it was commonly believed by them that Lord Palmerston habitually employed and secretly encouraged these foreign refugees to gratify his own aversion and resentment against governments with which he was nominally on friendly terms. On the oilier hand, the demand thus made, in laiiguage of considerable severity, and with an implied menace acrain lers broad, was probably stEnglish travel- anim(isity of courts dictated as much by the their dread these to Lord Palmerston as by of the refugees. For, we may here observe, that no sooner was it known at Berlin that a change had taken place in the office of secretary of state for foreign affairs, than Chevalier Bunsen was instantly directed by telegraph to drop the rep- resentations of the Prussian government on this subject, as a proof of the earnest desire of the cab- inet of Berlin to establish the best relations with this country. This significant fact demonstrates that the previous tone of the continental powers was in great measure the result of the encourage- ment Lord Palmerston had been su their bitterest enemies. pposed to give to But the shaft thus directed against the late foreign minister was feathered from his own wing. In the autumn of 1848, during th~ disturbances in Ireland, Lord Palmerston had himself addressed a very strong remonstrance to Mr. Bancroft, then en- voy from the United States in London, on the sub- ject of proceedings of the most hostile character towards the British government which had then recently taken place in the United States. He complained that not only had private associations been formed, but public meetings held, for the avowed purpose of encouraging, assisting, and organ- izing rebellion in Ireland ; and he denounced with just indignation the acts of these conspirators in the United States against the peace of a country in friendly relations with their own government. He added that as the powers of the president were very limited to check and discouiitenance such pro- ceedings, the Americans must not take it amiss that her majestys government should resort to measures of precaution and of repression in regard to persons, whatever their nationality might be, who in this posture of affairs should come from the United States to this realm. This despatch, which had been published in the sess~onaI papers of Congress, rendered the task of the foreign plenipotentiaries an easy one, for th~y had only to request that Lord Palmerston would 9 apply his own principles to the persons in London who are employed in encouraging, assisting, and organizing rebellion in Hungary, Italy, Germany, and France; and the threat they held out agaimist English travellers on the continent was not stronger than Lord Palmerstons intimation that Americans found in Ireland, in 1848, must not take it amiss if they were arrested, as in fact some of them were, under the extraordinary powers then conferred upon the lord-lieutenant. A few days after the receipt of these communi- cations Lord Palmerston vacated office and Lord Granville succeeded him; so that the very first discussion in which the new foreign secretary was engaged had originated in the mistrust and resent- rnent it had been the misfortune of his predecessor to excite throughout Europe. We have already remarked that upon the nomination of Lord Gran- ville the Prussian note was instantly abandoned. To the other notes, of France, Austria, Russia, and the Germanic diet, and to a subsequent remon- strance from the King of the Two Sicilies, Lord Granville made an able and dignified reply, which will be found in another part of our columns. He pointed omit, in the first place, that foreigners have an unrestricted right of entrance and residence in this country, but that they are bound to obey the laws which protect them; and every person, whether British or foreign, is amenable to justice for being concerned in levying war against the government of a state at amity with Great Britain. So far foreign governments can as easily prosecute such offenders as the Crown of England itself. He then defends the ancient and universal practice of hos- pitality extended by England to all classes of polit- ical fugitives, not to democrats and revolutionists only, but to princes, prime ministers, and kings; and contends that measures taken against suspected persons in the midst of an insurrection would by no means justify vexatious impediments to English travellers by way of retaliation for the acts of fiureign refugees in England. In conclusion, Lord Granville declares that her majestys government not only regrets, but highly condemns, any attempt on the part of refmigees in England to excite insur- rection against the governments of their respective countries; and that such conduct would be retarded as a flagrant breach of hospitality. All legal means will therefore be taken to prevent it. To this cir- cular despatch a conciliatory answer has since been received from most of the courts to which it was addressed ; and we hope the affair may now be con- sidered to be terminated. When a country proclaims, as ~ve have done for ages, an unrestricted liberty of refuge and residence to foreigners, it necessarily follows that this asylum is used antI occasionally abused by large numbers of worthless and mischievous persons, and we prob- ably suffer more by their presence than those states against which they direct their hostility. English credulity us imposed upon by their ha- ran ues, and English munificence is taxed for their sustenance ; in returim for which they decry our in- stitutions, vilify our character, and endeavor to embroil us with the rest of the world. Nobody can be insensible to these evils; hut in the deliber- ate judgment of the people of England these evils are more than compensated by the great principle of freedom under which they occur. To what, after all, do we owe the presence of this large class of political refugees in England? Chiefly to the acts of the very powers and governments which now complain of their presence here. They are here 10 MORMONS. because they are expelled from every other part of Europe, and especially from their own homes. Within the last few weeks the list of fugitives from political persecution has been augmented hy a list of proscription containing many of the first hames in the civil and military annals of France. It is by the direct act of the president of the French re- public, not by our invitation or by their own choice, that these refugees are living among us ; and we are at a loss to understand how governments which have just banished their political adversaries to a land where all control over their persons and opin- ions must cease, can address themselves to this country, as if we were to aid them in the work of persecution. We trust the political refugees of all shades of opinion, to whom this correspondence may now be known, will conform, as it is their duty to do, to the principles and the laws of the country whose hospitality and protection they accept. They are indiscriminately received; they enjoy, without exception, all the personal liberties of Englishmen but it would be a base and unworthy return for this hearty and unsuspicious welcome to infect this island with the noisome conspiracies of revolutionary factions, or to pursue, beneath the shelter of our laws, the visionary objects of fallen dynasties, gen- erals, and statesmen. Louis Napoleon was the first person who in our time abused this hospitality by an attempt to invade a friendly neighboring state; but we trust that no such precedent will be copied by those who are now exiled by his fears or his resentment. From the Morning Chronicle, 28th Jan. MORMONS. THE writers and speakersno longer assuming to be merely speculative, but claiming to be emi- nently practicalwho attribute all animosity be- tween communities to the ineffaceable distinctions of race, are nowhere more strikingly confuted than in the relations between the great divisions of the United States. The American republic assimilates differences of blood by a process so rapid that the narrowest scrutiny can scarcely detect any o~me of its stages beyond the beginning and the end ; but, on the other hand, it comprises two populations which, as far as habits, sentiments, and political leanings can make them, are two self-contained nationalities, and of these the diversity is entirely referable to an institution artificial in its character, removable by positive law, and introduced within a period so recent as to be distinctly cognizable by history. The bondage of the negroes makes two nations of North and South ; circumstances equally fortuitous, though not equally homogeneous, are setting up an impregnable barrier of manners between East and West; and now one of the deepest and most hope- less incompatibilities of which people living under the same sky are capable seems to have been created by a creed not too old for the youngest of us to remember its origin iii tile self-convicting impos- tures of a profligate vagabond. The early success, the subsequent sufferings, and the eventual exodus of the Mormons, were ffrst laid before the English reader, in a consecutive narrative, by one of the special correspondents of The Morning Chronicle. His account left them settled on the borders of the Great Salt Lake, under the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, governed by their own hierarchy, practising the rites of their faith and the peculiar social institutions which it sanctions, recruited in numbers by plentiful accessions from the Eastern States and from England, turning the wilderness into a garden by assiduous culture, and affecting a lofty disdain for the gold of California, which they were the first to detect among the glittering sands of their water-courses. Since then, we have heard of them, at intervals, as claimants for a place with- in the broad pale of the republican government, and as recipients of the provisional organization which they had demanded. And now at lastfour years from the break in their historythey redppear, in the report of the United States judges to the presi- dent of the republic, as indulging in the license of oriental manners under the la~vs of arm Anglo-Saxon democracy, as utterly alienated in feeling from the American government, obedient to a rule of conduct completely inconsistent with its principle, pillaging its public funds, outraging its officers, and cursing the memory of its immortal founder. There is no reason to doubt that when the Mor- mons fled from the banks of the Mississippi to their present settlements, they believed themselves, after the type which they keep constantly in view, to have escaped forever into the wilderness from a more than Egyptian pppression. When they after- wares solicited admittance intt) the Union, there was no want of compla~ent remark, on the other side of the Atlantic, that native-born Americans, however perverted by creed, could never be debased into resigning their natural pride in the citizenship of the great republic, or their claim to the other privileges which it confers. Whatever mioht be the force of these motives among the rank and file of the Saints, it may be taken for granted that the chiefs of their hierarchy, never deficient in capacity or penetration, had discovered that a posi- tion of independence, in the territory which they occupied, had become untenable. They had been gradually enveloped on all sides. The riches of California, which the Mormons were long careful to conceal, had peopled the Pacific seaboard with thousands of the most active and encroaching spirits amon,, the population from which they had fled. The cessions of Mexico had flanked them on the south with the puss ~ssions of the republic. Their own settlements were fast becoming a regular sta- tion on the overland route to the gold mines, and they must have known that, wherever such a road was once struck, it was sure to fix the direction of permanent emi ration from the Western States. It was impossible but that a host of strangers should soon invade their borders, laying claim to all the privileges of the Saints, but disloyal to their government and disdainful of their faith. It was probably on a consideration of all these dangers that Brigham Young and his collea~ues determined to apply to Congress for a law to consti- tute the settlement a territory or provisional state. Still distant and still little cared for, they might hope to get the organization of the new dependency entrusted to the members of the Mormon Church, and thus the very instruments, from which they feared so much, might be turned against the in- truders whom they were expecting. The scheme seems to have so far succeeded that Brigham Young, the person invested by his church with the prophetic office, was named governor or executive head of the Territory; but, unfortunately for the Mormons though fortunately, perhaps, for the eventual civilization of the vast tracts of country at the east- ern base of the Rocky Mountainsthe supreme court of the United States, whose ftunctions always follow and control those of executive authority, A STUDY FOR THE MILLION. From the Norfolk Newg. despatched judicial officers to Utah who had no Indian war. Suppose them even dislodged from original connection with it whatever. The report Utah. The annexations from Mexico have trans- of these gentlemen, drawn up on their retirement ferred almost the whole of the unsettled countries from the territory in disgust, is a singular record to the allegiance of the United States, and the of mortifications heaped on themselves, and of gross removal of the Mormons would therefore only post- insults offered to the powers which they represented. pone the problem which is offered hy their extraor- It is difficult to see how the central government, dinary social organization. The matter is des- consistently with its dignity, can avoid inflicting tined to cause the American government much condign punishment on the Mormons. They ap- serious, though unprofitably hestowed, perplexity. propriated to the purposes of their church a fund ___________________________ which Congress had voted for the erection of public buildings. They arrested an official who was charged with the conveyance of publ~ moneys, in the avowed design of confiscating them. They contemptuously refused to pot in execution the en- actments of Congress fundamentally applicable to the new territory. They selected the most puhlic and solemn ceremonies as occasions for putting slights upon the judges. They openly disowned the United States government, and execrated the name of George Washington. The apparently gratuitous folly of these proceedings, which seems hardly reconcilable with the known acuteness of the Mormon chiefs, is no doubt to he explained hy their conviction, that it was better to brave the vengeance of the republic than to let their author- ity be impaired by the least deference to its officers or its behests. Much, too, of the violent language employed is only characteristic of the strata of Anglo- Saxon society from which the hulk of the Mormons has been taken. There are, however, many reflec- tions suggested by the report which are not so easily disposed of. How is this strange people to he dealt with 1 That they can ever be amalgamated or live in peace with the. Gentile communities which will shortly he rising on all sides of them, no one can suppose for a moment who has thought on the nature and tendencies of a society which is based on polygamy. Indeed, if natural repulsion could be subdued, the very friendliness which would follow, coupled with the latitude allowed to individual action by the American institutions, would make the example of such a society a peril of signal imminency and magnitude. It is fortunate, therefore, that the antipathies between the Mormons and their neigh- hors must prove unconquerable, and must multiply with each succeeding generation. Insurmountable political differences will shortly be added to them. Is it to be imagined that the citizens of California or of New York will ever allow their free vote to he controlled by the verdict of a community which, however sincere itself, must always be despotically governed by an ambitious impostor I Between their polygamy, their fanaticism, and their depend- ence on a divinely-accredited chief, the Mormons exhibit some singular resemblance to the Mahome- dan races; and we know, from experience, that political relations between Mahomedans and Chris- tians have ever proved impossible, except on the terms of absolute subjection on one side or the other. What, then, is to be done with the Saints 2 their church to be violently dissolved, and their cus- tonis prohibited I Hitherto they have only gained strength, cohesion, and confidence under persecu- tion. Are they to be conquered and expelled While they were yet a feeble folk, the Mormons stood a regular siege at Nauvoo; and, since then, their numbers have decupled, and a campaign against them, in their own deserts, might chance to prove as bloody, dangerous, and costly as the con- ilict with Mexico; while it would certainly be as ~agXorious, and probably as long protracted, as an A STUDY FOR THE MILLION. WE announced last week the death of Johnson Jex, the learned blacksmith of Letheringsett. He was the son of William Jex, a blacksmith, and was born at Billingford, in this county, in or about the year 1778. In his boyhood he was sent to a day school, but he has often been heard to say that although he was sent off to school for years, he never went three months in his life. He frequently walked to Foulsham instead, to look in at the shop-window of Mr. Mayes, a watchmaker, who resided there. He did not learn to read or write at school, hut taught himself afterwards. His mechanical talent manifested itself at a very early age. With remeard to Jexs first experiment in clock-work, the follow- ing anecdote is related. When about twelve or thirteen years of age, a watchmaker went to his mothers house to clean her clock. Jex watched him while he took it in pieces, cleaned the works, and put them together again. No sooner had he left than the boy determined to try whether he could not do the same. lie at once went to work, and completed his task with all the skill and ex- actitude of an experienced hand. (He did not mention this occurrence till several years after- wards.) From that time he began to turn his attention to watch and clock making, and eventually attained great excellence in the art. When about thirteen years old he became acquainted with Mr. Mayes, of whom mention has alredy been made. Mr. Mayes attention was first attracted towards Jex by frequently observing him look in at his window. He at length asked him what he wanted. Jex replied, he wished to see that thingpoint- ing to a newly invented instrument for either clock or watch making. Mr. Mayes showed it him, but did not allow him to touch it. Jex declared he could make one like it, and he accordingly did so in about a month. Mr. Mayes was delighted with the talent and ingenuity displayed by the boy, and from that time took great pleasure in showing him anything connected with his busine.~s. At his death he left Jex a legacy of 501., as a proof of the high esteem he entertained for him. In early life Jex was by no means robust in health, and he afterwards declared his belief that working at the bout-hammer, at the blacksmiths anvil, had been the means of strengthening his constitution and saving his life. Some particulars of Jexs early history are given in Youngs General View of the Agriculture of the County of Norfolk. We subjoin the following extract, written about the year 1802. Under the head implements, I must not conclude without mentioning a person of most extraordinary mechanical talents. Mr. Jex, a young blacksmith at Billingford, at sixteen years of age, having heard that there was such a machine as a way-measurer, he reflected by what machinery the result could be produced, and set to work to con. trive one; the whole was his own invention. It 11 ALFRED AUGUSTUS FRY. was done, as might he expected, in a round-about way, a motion too accelerated, corrected by addi- tional wheels, but throughout the complicity such accurate calculations were the basis of his work, that when finished and tried it was perfectly correct without alteration. His inventive talents are un- questionable. He has made a machine fur cutting watch pinions, a depthening tool, a machine for cutting and finishing watch-wheel teeth, of his own invention, a clock-barrel and fusee engine, made without ever seeing anything of the kind. He made a clock, the teeth of the wheels cut with a hack saw, and the balance with a half round file. He has made an electrical machine, and a powerful horse-shoe magnet. Upon being shown by Mr. Munnings a common barrow-drill, the delivery by a notched cylinder, he invented and wrought an absolutely new delivery ; a brass cylinder, with holes, having movable plugs governed by springs which clear the holes or cups, throwing out the seed of any size with great accuracy; and, not liking the application of the springs on the outside of the cylinder, reversed the whole, and in a second, now making, placed them most ingeniously within it. Shortly after Youngs notice of him was written, Jex removed to Letheringsett, near Holt, where he worked as a common blacksmith till within the last thirty years. Since that time he has employed workmen in the practical part of his business, but he continued till his decease to live in the house adjoining the blacksmiths shop. The first watch ever constructed by Jex was made after he had settled at Letheringsett, for his friend the Rev. T. Munnings, of Gorget, near Dereham. Every part of this watch, including the silver face, and every tool employed in its construction, were of Jexs own making. One of the greatest efforts of Jexs in- ventive powers was the construction of a gold chro- nometer, with what is technically termed a de- tached escapement and compensating balance, which was made long before he ever saw or heard of the detached escapementthe principle of which has since been so successfully applied by Arnold and Earushaw. Jex turned the jewels himself, made the cases, the chain, the mainspring, and indeed every part of the watch, except the dial. The very instruments with which he executed this wonderful _____________________________ piece of mechanism were of his o~vn workman- ship. It is only by watchmakers themselves that ALFRED A. FRYThe Sun, in noticing the re- this triumph of skill can be adequately appreciated. cent decease of a very remarkable man, Alfred Augus- They know that no single man is ever employed to tus Fry, says make a complete chronometer, but that different His memory is to be regarded with respect for his parts of the mechanism are entrusted to different noble qualities as a citizen and a politic an. Al- hands, and that many are employed upon a sinole though he never assumed a place in public life, as watch. This watch is now in the possession one of the prominent notabilities of the day, he is of well known to a large circle of men who have been Mr. I3lakeley, of Norwich. Such was Jex s thirst used to the political movements of the last forty years, for information, and such was his resolution to clear as one of that band of intrepid and truly honest men away every obstacle which impeded his progress, who have contributed so effectually in their sphere to that, wishing to read some French works on Ho- produce the present enlightened and reforming state rology, he mastered, unassisted, the French Ian- of the public mind. To use the emphatic expression guage, when about sixty years of age! He then of the Lord Chancellor a few months ago, he was a read the books in question, but found that they con- reformer long before reform was fashionable ; and tamed nothing which was new to him, ha having we may add he was one of the men who did much,. become thoroughly acquainted with the subject by and at a great cost to himself, to make reform fash- previous study of English authors. Another of aonable. As he began in youth, so he continued J cx s inventions was a lathe of extraordinary power through a pre~minently energetic manhood, and so and ingenuity, which remained in his possession he remained at the close of a career, which, although until his death. By means of this lathe, he was he was approaching his term of threescore years and enabled to cut the teeth of wheels mathematically ten, we cannot but feel was too prematurely closed. His favorite maxim was that of the noble Roman correct into any number, even or odd, up to 2,000, poet Vitam impendere Feroand to that self- by means of a dividing plate. He also constructed sacrificing principle of action throughout his career a lathe on a minute scale for turning diamonds, he invariably, at every cost, adhered. Honored be which is very complicated in its structure. He his memory! He belonged to a race of earnest men likewise invented an air-tight furnace door for his own greenhouse, so constructed that the fire would keep lighted from Saturday night till Monday morning, thus obviating the necessity of attending to it on Sunday. About ten years ago he invented a method of opening green-house windows to any required width, and so fastened that the wind has no power over them. Jex was also an iron and brass founder, a glass-blower, a maker of mathe- matical instruments, barometers, thermometers, gun barrels, air guns, & c. Jex understood elec- tricity, galvanism, electro-magnetism, & c., and had a thorough tmnowledge of chemistry as far as the metals are concerned. Amongst other sciences, Jex understood astronomy, and could calculate the time by the fixed stars. In taking astronomical observations, he was accustomed to make use of his own door-posts and a chimney opposite. He made telescopes and metallic reflectors, which are universally acknowledged to be extremely difficult of construction. He was naturally a timid man, and excessively afraid of contagion; yet he lived in a state of filth which was almost sufficient of itself to generate disease: He never allowed a woman to enter his house for the sake of cleaning it, and his~ r rooms consequently contained the accumulated dust of years. His disposition was shy and retiring; but whenever he met with any one whose tastes were similar to his own, he would converse for hours with the greatest delight on any subject con- nected with the arts and sciences. He was a man of the strictest integrity, and of unimpeachable veracity. He was entirely destitute of the love of money, and sought out truthfor its own sake, and with no view to any personal gain. Such an example is rare indeed in this grasping and selfish age. He was kind in his manner to the poor, and rarely sent a mendicant away without relief. In 1845, Jex had a stroke of paralysis, from the effects of which he never entirely recovered. His intellect gradu- ally lost much of its original power, and the last year or two especially a very marked alteration was perceptible. He was again attacked with pa- ralysis in November lastand his death took place the 5th of January. His remains are interred in Letheriogsett churchyard. 12 MR. POWERS AND OLD HABITS.CATLIN S EXHIBITION. true political heroesdeep thinkers and energetic actors ; and we hold forth his example as a guide to the rising generation of politicians in the stirring time so distinctly at hand. This praise is very just. Mr. Fry was neither a public writer nor a public speaker, and yet he influ- enced the opinions of many men who have left their mark upon the times in which they lived. He was a commercial manoriginally a wholesale stationer subsequently an accountant, and lastly a partner in the eminent firm of De la Rue and Co.a busy man in his private affairs, but yet displaying an intense energy upon all public questions. His education had teen of a high order; his literary attainments were extensive and almost profound. He could readily turn from his newspaper to his Athennus, and pour out a flood of conversational eloquence upon Roman luxury or English freedom. When William Hone went through his three days of terrible contest with judicial predetermination to convict and punish, there was a tall man at his side, who ever and anon handed him a book, and whose eager deportment might have indicated that he was one of a small band who held that the battle was as much their affair as that of the poor bookseller. When the bar of the House of Lords was the scene of more impassioned eloquence than had perhaps ever been there heard beforefor the occasion was the trial of a queenthe same man was intently waiting upon the words of Brougham and Denman; and on one occasion a few Greek sentences were hastily jotted down by him, and, passing into the hands of one of these orators, were uttered with a force and solemnity which became the withering denunciation of antiquity thus suggested. Those were times when freedom of opinion was very danger- ous. The days of reform were at inind, and Alfred Fry worked in that struggle with a zeal which shrunk from no fatigue and asked for no rest. He had his reward in the improved state of law and of opinion, which has been the glory and safety of the last twenty years. The remembrance of his early contests then came gradually to be mellowed by a calm historical light. Public men and passing events were to have their characters and their real importance tested by a fixed standard of principle, and not by enthusiastic feelings. But there was one dominant idea for which he would have fought to the deaththat England should be essentially Protestant, if she would remain spiritually and intellectually free. MR. POWERS AND OLD HABITS. EXTRACT OF A LETTER FROM AN AMERICAN RESIDING TEMPORARILY IN FLORENcE. Mv correspondent is engaged in putting up some fixtures, and thus describes some of the vexatious in- cidents of a dependence on the mechanics of that city. He says In America I might be saved all this loss of time but here, where the carpenters have nothing but a red-hot poker to bore deep holes with,, (not an auger in all Florence!) what can be expected from other mechanics? A part of my room is fitted up like a blacksmiths shop, where I hammer through my diffi- culties as best I may. But, you will ask, how do the Florentines get on? Why, they get on as their grand- fathers did. They work without tools; and take as much time to do a thing as a Yankee would require to do it twice or thrice over. What would you think to see a man sawing wood, holding the wood in both hands, and the saw frame between his knees, bobbing up and down orer it with the perspira- tion dripping from his nose? and yet this is the way that the sawyers all do here. Everything is in- side out, or the wrong end foremost, in this country. The gimblets are made to turn the reverse of ours axes are shaped like grubbing-hoes; and plows are made from a forked tree. Even the sculptors are incorrigible. Our celebrated fellow-citizen, Powers, has invented and constructed many ingenious tools and great improvements in that art; and, although all praise and admire, none will adopt them. For instance, Mr. Powers, to prevent his models drying in the intervals between work, or in the night-time, has an oil-cloth cylinder suspended over the work from a pulley. When this is drawn down, the air is effectually excluded, and there can be, of course, no evaporation. Well, the native altists have been to see it; but as it never had been done by Canova, they could not make up their minds to try it. They re- turned to their studios, and still adhere to the old method, which is to swathe the clay statue from head to feet with wet bandages of muslin. This soon rots, and soils the clay with slime ; and, besides, it rubs away the delicate modelling. It also requires considerable time to put it on and take it off, whereas, by Mr. P.s method, it is done in an instant. But Mr. Powers has gone even beyond all this, for he now models his statues without the use of clay at all. He has discovered a process by which he makes the plaster as impressible as clay, thus saving both expense and time. This is an immense improvement~ but, nevertheless, the old fogies shake their heads at it, as much as to say, Our grandfathers did nt do things in this manner. Before closing, I ought to tell you that Mr. P. is blocking out his America in a spotless piece of marble. It is of the natural size of America, if you can guess what that is; or about six feet one inch high. I wish Congress would order it made of colossal size, say ten or twelve feet high, and put it in the place of the ten- pin-player on the eastern portico of the Capitol. It is rather an oversight in the Great West to neglect their renowned fellow-citizen, whose genius was first excited on the banks of ice belle riviere. .TVationai Intelligencer. CATLINS ExMIBITIoN.Mr. Catlin has recently been exerting himself in the advocacy of a museum of mankind, to contain and perpetuate the familiar looks, the manufactures, history, and records of all the vanishing races of man. A report on thc sub- ject was lately read by him at one of our scientific societies ; and on Friday the 9th, he delivered an address on the subject at his American Indian Collec- tion. He opened by a general review of his past labors in the study of the native tribes of America, illustrated by a reference to some of the numerous records he has collected, and by the appearance of various natives themselves in full costume. Mr. Catlin then proceeded to enforce the comprehensive scheme which now occupies him. After pointing out the urgent necessity of at once engaging in the for- mation of a museum of the kind proposed by him, if it is to be gathered together at allfor the inroads of civilization are rapidly extirpating the native races of the worldhe went on to develop his plan in its practical details. He proposes: as the first step, the purchase and fitting up of a steamer as a floating museum, in which the sea-port towns of all countries should be visited ; considering that this mode of ex- hibition would possess great advantages through the facility of its visiting the chief cities of the world, stopping no longer in any than a lucrative excitement could be kept up ; and in the great immediate saving of time, as well as in other respects. Mr. Catlins present collection would form the basis of such a museum, and he undertakes all liabilities and risks. The lecturer expressed his determination to persist in his efforts until they shall have accomplished the object he has in view; an~d, in order to give further publicity to his plans, he announced a continuation of lectures and discussions on the subject every Thurs- day evening for the present. The remarkable energy Mr. Catlin has heretofore displayed may give us con- fidence in at least his unflinching perseverance. Spectator, 17th January. 13 THE TWO ISABELS. From Sharpes Magazine. THE TWO ISABELS. BY MRS. S. C. HALL. Oh love, love, love, love love is like a dizziness; It will not let a poor man go aoout his business. OLD SoNo. And are these follies going, And is my proud heart growing Too cold, or wise, for womans eyes Again to set it glowing Mooaz. THE general put on his spectacles, and looked steadfastly at Isabel for at least two minutes. Turn your head, he said, at last there to the left. Isabel Montford, ~dthough an acknowledged beauty, was as amiable as she was admired ; she had also a keen appreciation of character; and, though somewhat piqued, was amused by the oddity of her aunts old lover. The general was a fine example of the well-preserved person and manners of the past century ; beauty always recog- nizes beauty as a distinguished relative ; and Isabel turned her head, to render it as attractive as it could be. The general smiled, and, after gazing for another minute with evident pleasure, he said Do me the favor to keep that attitude, and walk across the room. Isabella did so with much dignity; she certainly was exceedingly handsome ;her step light, but firm; her figure admirably poised; her head well and gracefully placed; her features finely formed; her eyes and smile bright and confiding. She would have been more captivating had her dress been less studied ; her taste was evidently Parisien rather than classic. The gentleman mut- tered something, in which the words, charming, and to be regretted, only met her ear; then he spoke distinctly You solicited my candor, young ladyyou challenged comparison between you and your com- peers, and the passing belles whom I have seen. Now, be so kind as to walk out of the room, rednier, and curtsey. Had Isabel Montford been an uneducated young lady, she might have flounced out of the salon, in obedience to her displeasure, which was very decide~d; hut as it was, she drew herself to her full hei~ht, and swept through the folding-doors. The general took a very large pinch of snuff. That is so, perfectly a copy of her poor aunt! he murmured ; just so would she pass onward, like a ruffled swan she went after that exact fashion into the ante-room, when she refused me, for the fourth time, thirty-five years ago. The young Isabel redntered, and curtseyed. The gentleman seated himself, leaned his clasped hands upon the head of his beautifully inlaid cane which he carried rather for show than useand said, Young lady, you look a divinity! Your tourreeure is perfection ; but your curtsey is fright- ful! A dip, a bob, a bend, a shuffle, a slide, a canterneither dignified, graceful, nor self-pos- sessed! A curtsey is in grace what an adagio is in music ;only masters of the art can execute either the one or the other. Why, the beauty of the Duchess of Devonshire could not have saved her reputation as a graceful woman, if she had dared such a curtsey as that. I assure you, sir, remonstrated the offended Isabel, that Madame Micheau What do I care for the woman? exclaimed the general, indignantly. Have I not memory B Can you not teach me B said Isabel, amused and interested by his earnestness. I teach you !I! No; the curtseys which captivated thousands in my youth were more an in- spiration than an art. The very queen of ballet, in the present day, cannot curtsey. Could my aunt B inquired Isabel, a little saucily. Your aunt, Miss Montford, was grace itself. Ah! there are no such women now a-days ! And, after the not very flattering observation, the general moved to the piano. Isabels brows contracted, and her cheeks flushed; ho~vever, she glanced at the looking-glass, was comforted, and smiled. He raised the cover, placed the seat with the grave gallantry of an old courtier, and invited the young lady to play. She obeyed, to do her justice, with prompt politeness; she was not with- out hope that there, at least, the old gentleman would confess she was triumphant. Her white hands, gemmed with jewels, flew over the keys like winged seraphs; they be~vildered the eye by the rapidity of their movements. The instrument thundered, but the thunder ~vas so continuous that there was no echo! The contrast will come by- and-by, thought the disciple of the old school there must be some shadowto throw up the lights. Thundercrashthundercrashdrumrattle a confused, though eloquent, running backwards and forwards of sounds, the rings flashing like lightning! Another crashloudera great deal of crossing handsviolent strides from one end of the instrument to the otherprodigious displays of strength on the part of the fair performera terrific shake! What desperate exertion ! thought the general; and all to produce a soulless noise.~~ Then followed a fearful banditti of octavesanother crash, louder and more prolonged than the rest; and she looked up with a triumphant smilea smile conveying the same idea as the pause of an opera-dancer after a most wonderful pirouette. Do you keep a tuner in the house, my dear young lady B inquired the general. If a look could have annihilated, he would have crumbled into ashes ; but he only returned it with admiration, thinking How astonishingly like her aunt, when she refused me the second time ! And that is fashionable music, Miss Moutford? I have lived so long out of England, only hearing the music of Beethoven, and Mozart, and Mendels- sohn, I was not aware that noise was substituted for power, and that execution had banished expres- sion. Dear me !why, the piano is vibrating at this moment! Poor thing! How long does a piano last you Miss Montford B Isabel was losing her temper, when fortunately her auntstill Miss Verecame to the rescue. The lovers of thirty years past would have met anywhere else as strangers. The once rounded and queen-like form of the elder Isabel was shorn of its grace and beauty; of all her attributes, of all her attractions, dignity only remained; and it was that high-bred, innate dignity which can never be acquired, and is never forgotten. She had not lost the eighth of an inch of her height, and her gray hair was braided in full folds over her fair but wrinkled brow. Isabel Moutford looked so exactly what Isabel Vere had been, that General Gordon was sorely perplexed; Isabel Vere, if ~xuth must be told, had taken extra pains with her dress; her niece had met the general the night before, and her 14 THE TWO ISABELS. likeness to her aunt had so recalled the past, that his promised visit to his old sweetheart (as he still called her) had fluttered and agitated her more than she thought it possible an interview with any man could do; she quarrelled with her beautiful gray hair, she cast off her black velvet dress dis- dainfully, and put on a blue Moire antique. (She remembered how much the captainno, the GEN- ERAL, once admired blue.) She was not a coquette; even gray hair at fifty-five does not cure coquetry where it has existed in all its strength; but, for the sake of her dear niece, she wished to look as well as possible. She wondered why she had so often refused poor Gordon. She had been all her life of too delicate a mind to be a husband- hunter, too well satisfied with her position to cal- culate how it could be improved, and yet, she did not hesitate to confess to herself that now, in the commencement of old age, however verdant it might be, she would have been happier, of more consequence, of more value, as a married woman. She had too much good sense, and good taste, to belong to the class of discontented females, con- sisting of husbandless and childless women, who seek to establish laws at war with the laws of the Almighty ; so, if her heart did beat a little stiffly, and sundry passages passed through her brain in connexion with her old adorer, and what the future might beshe may be forgiven, and will be, by those not strong- minded women who understand enough of the waywardness of human nature to know that, if youn~ heads and old hearts are some- times found together, so areyoung hearts and old heads. The young laugh to scorn the idea of Cupid and a crutch, but Cupid has strange vagaries, and at any moment can barb his crutch with the point of an arrow. The old people, as Isabel Montford irrever- ently called them that evening, did not Cret on well together; they ~vere in a great degree disappointed one ~vith the other. They stood up to dance the minuet de la cour, and Isabel X~ere languished and swam as she had never done before ; but the gen- eral only wondered how stiff she had grown, and hoped that he was not as ill used by time as Mis- tress Isabel Vere had been. At first, Isabel Mont- ford thought it good fun to see the antiquities bowing and curtseying, but site became interested in the lingering courtliness of the little scene, trembled lest her aunt should appear ridiculous, and then wondered how she could have refused such a man as General Gordon must have been. Days and weeks flew fast; the general became a constant visitor in the square, and the heart of Isabel Vere had never beaten so loudly at twenty as it did at fifty-and-five; nothing, she thought, could be more natural than that the general should recall the days of his youth, and seek the friendship au(l companionship of her who had never married, while hefaithless man !had beep guilty of two wives during his services in India. It was im- possible to tell which of the ladies he treated with the most attention. Isabel Moutford took an espe- cial delight in tormenting him, and he was cynical enough towards her at times. Although he frankly abused her piano-forte playing, yet he evidently preferred it to the music Miss Vere practised so indefatigably to please him, or to the songs she sung, in a voice which, from a high soprano, had been crushed by time into what might be con- sidered a very singular mezzo. He somehow fcrgot Itow to find fault with Miss Mootfords dancing, and more than once became her partner in a quadrille. It was evident, that while the general w~ growing young, Miss Vere remained as she was ! Isabel Montford amused herself at his ex- pense, but he did notquick-sighted and man-of-the- world though he wasperceive it. At first he was remarkably fond of recalling and dating events, and dwelling upon the grace, and beauty, and interest, and advantage, of whatever ~vas past and gone much to the occasional pain of Isabel Vere, who, gentle-hearted as she was, would have consigned dates to the bottomless pit ; latterly, however, he talked a good deal more of the present than of the past, and, greatly to the annoyance of the younger men, fell into the duties of escort to both ladies accompanying them to places of public promenade and amusement. On such occasions, Miss Isabel Vere looked either earnest or bashfulyes, positively bashful; and Miss Isabel Moutford, brimfull of as much mischief as a lady could delight in. At times, the general laid aside his cynical observations, together with his cane, which was not even replaced by an umbrella; to confess the truth, he had experienced several symptoms of heart disease, which, though they made him restless and uncomfortable, brought hopes and aspirations of life, rather than fears of death. One mornin, Isabel Montford and the general were alone in the salon where this little scene first opened Our difference has never been settled yet, she exclaimed, gayly; you have never proved to me the superiority of the Old school over the New. Simply because of your superiority to both, he replied. I do not perceive the point of the answer, said the young lady. What has my superiority over both to do with the question ? The general arose, and shut the door. Do you think von could listen to me seriously for five mmnutes? he said. Listening is always serious work, she an- swered. He took her hand within his; she felt it was the hand of age; the bones and sinews pressed on her soft palm with an earnest pressure. Isabel Moutfordcould you love an old man? She raised her eyes to his, and wondered at the light which filled them Yes, she answered, I could love an old man dearly; I could confide to him the dearest secret of my heart. And your heart, your heart itself? Such things have been, sweet Isabel. His hand was very hard, but she did not withdraw hers. No, not that, becausebecause I have not my heart to give. She spoke rapidly, and with emotion. I have it not to give, and I have so longed to tell you my secret! You have such influ- ence with my aunt, you have been so affectionate, so like a father to me, that if you would only inter- cede with her, for HtM and me, I know she could not refuse. I have oftenoften thought of intreat- ing this, and now it was so kind ofirou to asic, if I could love an old man, giving me the opportunity ,of showing that I do, by confiding in you, and asking your intercession. The room became misty to the generals eyes, and the rattle of a battle-field sounded in his ears, and beat upon his heart. And pray, Miss Montford, he said, after a pause, who may him be? Ab, you do not know him !my aunt forbade 15 THE TWO ISABELS. the continuance of our acquaintance the day before I had the happiness to meet you. It was most fortunate I wood you to call upon her, thinking (she looked up at his fine face, whose very wrinkles were aristocratic, and smiled her most bewitching smile) thinking the presence of the only man she ever loved would soften her, and hoping that I should one day he privileged to address you as my friend, my uncle ! And she kissed his hand.It really was hard to hear. I have heard her say, per- sisted the young lady, that when prompted by evil counsel, she refused you, she loved you, and since your return, she only lives in your presence.~~ The, general wondered if this was true, and thought he wonld not give the young beauty a triumph. He was recovering his self-possession. I remem- bered your admiration of passing belles, and felt how kindly you tolerated me, for my aunts sake; and surely you will aid me irs a matter upon which my happiness and the happiness of that poor dear fellow depends B She bent her beautiful eyes on the ground. And who is the poor dear fellow B inquired the general, in a singularly husky voice. Henry Mandeville, half-whispered Isabel. Oh, is it not a beautiful name the initials on those lovely handkerchiefs you gave me will still do; I shall still he I. M. A son of old Admiral Mandevillesl The youngest son ; she sighed, th at is my aunts ohjection ; were he the eldest, she would have heen too happy. Oh, sir, he is such a fine fellowsuch a hero lost a leg at Cabool, and received I dont know how many stabs from those horrid Affgauns. Lost a leg B repeated the general, with an ap- proving glance at his own ; why, he can never dance with you. No, but lie can admire my dancing, and does not think my curtsey a dip, a shuffle, a bend, a bob, a slide, a canter! Ah! dear general, I was always perfection in his eyes. By the immortal duke, thought the general, the young divinity is laughing at me! arMy aunt only objects to his want of money; now I have abundance for both; and your recoin- mendation, dear sir, at the Horse Guards, would at once place him in some position of honor and of profit; and, even if it were abroad, I could leave my dear aunt with the consciousness that her happi- ness is secured by you, dear guardian angel that you are! Ah, sir! at your time of life you can have no idea nf our feelings. Oh yes, I have ! sighed the general. Bless you ! she exclaimed enthusiastically; I thought you would recall the days of your youth and feel for us ; and when you see my dear Henry With a cork leg Ay, or with two cork legsyou will, I know, he convinced that my happiness is as secure as your own. Women are riddles, one and all ! said the general, and I should have known that before. Oh! do not say such cruel things and disappoint me, depending as I have been on your kindness and affection. Hark ! she continued, I hear my aunts footstep; now dear, dear general, reason coolly with hermy very existence depends on it. If you only knew him! Promise, do promise, that you will use your influence, all-powerful as it is, to save my life. She raised her beautiful eyes, swimming in un- shed tears, to his; she called him her uncle, her dear noble-hearted friend ; she rested her snowy hand lovinglyimploringly, on his shoulder, and even murmured a hope that, her aunts consent once gained, it might not be impossible to have the two weddings on the same day. The general may have dreaded the banter of sundry members of the Senior United Service Club who had already jested much at his devo- tion to the two Isabels; he may have felt a gener- ous desire to make two young people happy, and his good sense doubtless suggested that sixty-five and twenty bear a strong affinity to January and May; he certainly did himself honor, by adopting the interests of a brave young officer as his own, and avoided the banter of the club by pledging his thrice-told vows to his old love, the same bright morning that his new love gave her heart and hand to Henry Mandeville. From the N. Y. Evening Post. VINETA. FROM THE GERMAN OF MULLER. Vineta is the name of a iake in the island of Ruegen, in the Baitic. Tradition says, that in ancient times there stood a city on this spot, which sunk, and the lake caine up in its stead; the chime of bells from the steeples is still often heard beneath the wate~s. FROM the lakes unfathomed waters ringing, Evening bells sound faintly through the air: Thus to mortals wondrous tidings bringing From the far old wondrous city there. Low it rests, with earth no more connected, Waters now its lonely ruins lave Still, from pinnacle and spire reflected, Golden sparks are mirrored in the wave. And the boatman who, with eye enchanted, Once hath seen the light, at sunset clear, Ever seeks the magic spot undaunted, Heeding not the rocks that threaten near. From the hearts unfathomed depths, a ringing Comes to me like faintly sounding bells; Ak, it cometh wondrous tidings bringing, Of the love once cherished there it tells. To those depths a beauteous world is given, Sunken there its ruins still remain; Still they shine, like golden sparks of heaven, In the mirror of my dream again. Then, beneath the waters disappearing, Would I sink in yon reflection fair, And, as if angelic voices hearing, Fain would seek the wondrous city there. A Buckeye libroad; or, Wanderings in Eserope and the Orient. By Samuel S. Cox. New York: G. P. Putnam. 1852. Here is a traveller from Ohio, who visited Europe in the year of the great exhibition, and, after a look at the Crystal Paiahe and its samples of the products of all the civilized countries of the globe, wandered through Europe, to Greece and its isles, and to Asiib Minor. The author had his eyes open wherever.he went, and though here and there an exception may be taken to his English, describes what he saw with liveliness and spirit, which is a more important quality than mere verbal neatness and accuracy. It is a pleasant book for the winter evenings, and not ill-suited for light summer reading. The work is illustrated by several neat engravings on wood, repre- senting remarkable places.A. Y. Evening Post. 16 NATHANIEL HAWThORNE. From the New Monthly Magazine. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. With a keen eye and overflowing heart He pours out truth in works by thou~htful love Inspiredworks potent over smiles and tears. WORDSWORTH. ALT11OU is an author of some years standing, and of considerable repute in his own country, Mr. Hawthorne has been, until quite recently, all but unknown among ourselves. Only a few practised litidrateurs recognized him, as a writer who could rifle Twice-told-Tales of their proverbial tedium, and could distil spirit and life from the Mosses of an Old Mans~. What would lately have been deemed an impossible quantity of his writings, is now circulated up and down these islands, wherever railways and shilling libraries are on the qui vice, lie is now fairly seated on the same eminence with Cooper and Washington Irving; and we trust that the sympathy with his singular but fascinating works, at length evoked among the old Britishers, will encourage him ,to strains in a yet hi,her moodfor he would seem to be one of those self-distrustful and diffident authors to whoni the inward witness of genius is naught, unless confirmed by the external evidence of third and fourth editions. Sooth to say, we know tif few living tale-tellers who even approach him in the art of investing with an appropriate halo of vision- ary awe those subjects which relate to the super- naturalthose legendary themes whose province is the dun borderland of fancy. His is the golden meaii between the Fee-faw-fum terrors of spectre- factors extraordinary, and that chill rationalism which protests there are not more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt ofpshaw, it never dreams !say, rather, seen and handled, weighed and analyzed to the minutest globulein its phi- losophy. He is far enough, on the one hand, from the red-and-blue-light catastrophes of Monk Lewis; and, on the other, he steers clear of the irony of scepticism, and narrates hi~ traditions with a grave simplicity and cordial interest, the character of which is, as it Thould be, highly contagious. Of this unfathomable world of ours he can say, I have watched Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps, And my heart ever gazes pa the depth Of thy deep mysteries :~ and he has pondered much on what Wordsworth calls That superior mystery Our vital frame, so fearfully devised, And the dread soul within. He throws deep and scrutinizing glances on those realities which cluster around mans heart of hearts. He loves to give way to dreamy yet serious speculationsto the wayward, undulating motion of thoughts that wander through eterolty. He is one of the subtlest of psychologists, while reporting the results of his study, without any affisetation of scholastic jargon. His still waters run deep; how clearly they reflect the human face divine of man, woman, and child, let those testify who frequent the green pastures through which they stray, and who have gazed idly or otherwise into the placid streamfinding therein, some at least, a ma~ ic mirror, from which they have departed in self-introspective mood, saying, We have seen stranDe things to-day ! ~ Shelley. ccccxl. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxxiii. 2 There can be little question that the most power- fulif also the least pleasingof Mr. Hawthornes fictions, is The Scarlet Letter, a work remark- able for pathos in, the tale, and art in the telling. Even those who are most inclined (and ~vith reason) to demur to the plot,, are constrained to own them- selves enthralled, and their profoundest sensibilities excited by The hook along whose burning leaves lils searlet weh our wild romancer weaves. The invention of the story is painful. Like the Adam Blair of Mr. Lockhart, it is a tale of trouble, and rebuke, and blasphemy ; the trouble of a guilty soul, the rebuke of public stiguta, and the occasioii thereby given to) the enemy to blas- pheme. For, of the two fallen and suffering creatures whose anguish is here traced out, little by little, and line upon line, with such harrowing fidelity, one, and the guiltiest of the twain, is, like Adam Blair, a venerated presbyter, a pillar of the faith; the very burden of remorse which crusheis his soul increases the effect of his ministrations, giving him sympathies so intimate with the sinful brotherhood of mankindkeeping him dowuu on a level with the lowesthim, the man of ethereal attributes, whose voice the angels might have listened to and answered ; and thus his heart vibrates in unison with that of the fallen, and receives their pain into itself, and sends its own throb of pain through a thousand other breasts, in gushes of sad, persuasive eloquence. It has been objected to works of this class that they attract more persons than they warn by their excitement. Others have replied What is the real moral of any tale? Is it not its permanent expressionthe last burning trace it leaves upon the soul? Arid who ever read Adam Blair we are citing the words of a critic of that book without rising from the perusal saddened, sol- emnized, smit with a profound horror at the sin which wrought such hasty havoc in a character so pure and a nature so noble? This effect produced, surely the tale has not been told in vain. How- ever this may be, ~ve find reviewers who moo4 the above objection to such fictions in general, avowing,. with ref~rence to the Scarlet Letter in partien- lar, that if sin and sorrow in their most fearful forms are to be presented in any work of art, they have rarely been treated with a loftier severity,, purity, and sympathy than here. What so many romancists would have turned into a fruitful hotbed of prurient description and adulterated sentiment,. is treated with consummate delicacy and moral restraint by Mr. Hawthorne. As Miss Mitford observes, With all the passionate truth that he has thrown into the long agony of the seducer, we never, in our pity for the sufferer, lose our abhor- reiice of the sin. How powerfully is depicted. the mental strife, so tumultuous and incessant in. its agitation, of the young clergyman, Arthur Dimmesdalewhom his congregation deem a mir- ache of holinessthe mouthpiece of Heavens mes- sages of wisdom, and rebuke, and lovethe very ground he treads being sanctified in their eyes. the maidens growing pale before himthe aged members of his flock, beholding his frame so feeble,, (for he is dying daily of that within which passeth show,) while they themselves are rugged in t~aeir decay, believe that he will go heavenward ~before them, and command their children to lay their old bones close to their young pastors holy grave; and all this time, perchance, when lie is thinkingof his. 17 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. grave, he questions with himself whether the grass will ever grow on it, because an accursed thing must there bc buried. Irresistibly affecting is the climax, when he stands in the pulpit preaching the election sermon, (so envied a privilege!) exalted to the very proudest eminence of superiority to which the gifts of intellect, rich lore, prevailing eloquence, ~nd whitest sanctity could exalt a New England priest in those early daysand meanwhile his much-enduring-partner-in-guilt, Hester Prynne, is standing beside the scaffold of the pillory, ~vith the scarlet letter still burning on her breaststill burning into it! There remains but for him to mount that scaffoldin haste, as one in articulo mw-/is, to take his shame upon himand to lay open the awful secret, though it be red like scarlet, before venerable elders, and holy fellow- pastors, and the people at large, whose great heart is appalled, yet overflowing with tearful sympathy. The injured husband, again, is presented with memorable intensity of coloring. He quietly pitches his tent beside the dissembler, who knows him not; and then proceedsfeslinct leni~with the finesse of a Machiavel, and the fiendish glee of a Mephistophiles, to unwind the nexus of the 4rage(ly only to involve his victim inextricably in its toils. One feels how fitting it is that, ~vhen he has gained his purpose, old Roger Chillingworth should droop and his whole nature collapsethat all his strength and energy, all his vital and intellectual force, should seem at once to desert him, so that he withers up, shrivels a~vay, and almost vanishes from mortal sight, like an uprooted weed that lies welting in the sunsuch being the self-generated retribution of one who has made the very principle of his life to consist in the pursuit and systematic exercise of revenge. His it is to drain the dregs of the bitter truth, that To be wroth with one we love Both work like madness in the brain. And what shall we say of Hester Prynne, his ill- mated, ill-fated bride Gazing at so mournful a wreck, we are reminded of the pathos and signifi- cance in the words of One of old time, of One who spake as never man spake: Seest thou this woman B The distinguishing characteristic of Christian ethics has been said to lie in the recog- nition of the fact, that the poor benighted pariah -of social life will often, in the simple utterance of a cheerful hope in his behalf, see a window opening in heaven, and faces radiant with promise looking out upon him.* Mr. Hawthornes search- ing of dark bosotns has taught him a humane psychology. He will not judge by the mere hear- ing of the ear or seeing of the eye; he can - quite appreciate and illustrate by historyif his- tory be philosophy teaching by examplethe pregnant paradox of poor discrowned Lear, ending with And then,. handy-dandy, which is the jus- tice, and which is the thief I Not that he palli ates the sin, or acts as counsel for the defendant; on the contrary, few have so explicitly surrounded the sin with ineffaceable deformities, or the crimi- nal with agonizing woes. But he feels that our casuistry is pervaded by ignorance of a thousand cumulative conditions, and this precludes him from judging peremptorily by the outward appearance. Masterly is his delineation of Hester in her life of penancethe general symbol at which preacher and moralist may point, and in which they may -embody their images of frailtyarid over whose Thomas de Qtdncey. grave the infamy she must carry thither will ne her only monumetit. A mystic shadow of suspi- cion attaches itself to her little lonesome dwelling. Children, too young to comprehend why she should be shut out from the sphere of human charities, creep nigh enough to behold her plying her needle at the cottage-door, or laboring in her little garden, or coming forth along the pathway that leads town- ward; and then, discerning the scarlet letter on her breast, scamper off with a strange, contagious fear. She stands apart from moral interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt; no more smile with the household joy, nor mourn with the kindred sorrow ; or, should it succeed in manifesting its forbidden sym- pathy, awaketuing only terror and horrible repug- nance. Of a tale so told it tnay be well said that In proud Hesters fiery pang we share.5 It is highly characteristic of our author to make little Pearl a source of vild foreboding to her remorseful mother. The elf-child is so freakish, tetchy, and waywardshe has stich strange, defi- ant, desperate moodsshe plays such fantastic sports, flitting to and fro with a mocking smile, which iutvests her with a certain remoteness and intangibility, as if she were hovering in the air, and might vanish like a glimmering light, whose whence and whither we know notthat Hester cannot help questioning, many a time and oft, whether Pearl is a human child. Similarly it is devised that Hester should believe, with shuddering unwillingness, that the scarlet letter she wears has endowed her with a new sense, and given her a sympathetic knowledge of the hidden sin in other hearts. She is terror-stricken by the revelations thus made. Must she receive as truth these inti- tnations, so obscure, yet so distinct? Surely, in all her maiserable experience, there is nothing else so awful and so loathsome as this sense. What marvel if the vulgar, in those dreary old times, aver that the symbol is not merely scarlet cloth, tinged in an earthly dye-pot, but is red-hot with infernal fire, and can he seen glowing all alight whenever hester Prynne walks abroad after dusk. Arid, we must needs say, it seared Hesters bosom so deeply, that perhaps there was more truth in the rumor than our modern incredulity may be in- clined to admit. The picture is one that leaves an indelible impression Ott the mind.. Nor may ye forget to notice how skilfully the background is filled in, and in what exeeNent keeping with the foremost figures are the puritan, sotnbre shades behind. The patriarchal era of New England life has found no such vivid and graphic a painter as Nathaniel Hawthorne, and it is evidently one which he knows to be hisfortewitness the constancy of his attachment to its grim and rugged aspect. Less powerful and pathetic, but at the same timne less open to objection on gropnds already stated, The House of the Seven Gables is a vigorous, highly-finished performance, of sterling value for its originality, its shrewd perception of character, its descriptions, its humor, and its plot. Nothing, says one of his reviewers, can be better than the manner in which Mr. Hawthorne presses superstition into his service as a romancer, leaving the reader to guess and explain such marvels as, at first seen down the dim vista of time, are repro- duced more faintly in the world of the real pres ent. His passion for studying idiosyncrasy is ~ Dr. Holmes, of Boston. (U. S.) 18 OCEAN PENNY POSTAGE. largely illustrated in this fine legend. He seems to have as keen a zest fort individuality and eccen- tricity as Charles Lamb himself in actual life. Common natures, says the latter,* do not suffice me. Good people, as they are called, wont serve. I want individuals. I am made up of queer points, and I want so many answering needles. And thorough individualsin the sense most grateful to Elia, and most grammatically satisfactory to Archdeacon Haretare Clifford and Hephzihah Pyncheon, Holgrave the daguerreo- typist, racy old Uncle Venner, and that dainty piece of little ~vomanhood, cousin Phmbe. Judge Pyncheon is one of those whited sepulchres from which Mr. Hawthorne has such a knack in scraping off the l)aint; the contrast between the male cous- ins is admirably brought out, and the effect of the catastrophe upon Clifford is developed with true subjective power. We love the description of the Old House, with its.quaint figures and gro- tesque gothicisms, its seven gables and multitudi- P005 lattices, its spacious porch, its mysterious fountain, its garden and grassplot. The book is rich, too, in strong situations. It gives unusual scope, moreover, to its authors humorfor in- stance, the etching of the First Customer, with his illimitable appetite for gingerbread versions of Jim Crow immediately after breakfast, and an ele- phant or two of the same mat ~riel, as a preliminary whet before dinneror the portrait of good Uncle Venner, with his immemorial white head and wrinkles, and solitary tooth, and dapper blue coat, ill-supported by tow-cloth trowsers, very short in the legs, and bagging down strangely in the rear in short, a miscellaneous old gentleman, partly himself, but in good measure, somebody elsean epitome of times and fashions. Mr. Hawthornes humor is habitually of a quiet order, contenting itself with descriptive passages at intervals, and glances of sarcasm en passantsometimes, however, bubbling into the farcical, as in the fragment touching Mrs. Bullfrog. Old Maid Pyncheons character, a compound of the pathetic and the ludi- crous, affords ample play for the comiC element; and it is instructive to observe the liauts to which comedy is restrai ned, and how it is made to enhance what is affecting in the poor spiuster5 portraiture. Such are this authors two leading works. Before their appearance, he had gained celebrity at home as a gifted tale-teller and essayist, by the publication of T~vice-Told Tales, and Mosses from an Old Manse. Folks there are, in this unac- countable world, who can afford, or pretend they can afford, to turn up their nose (like a peacock, as Miss Squeers has it) at tales and story-books. These potent, grave, and reverend signiors affect to say with one of Moli~res heroes, Oen est trop, h in fin, Et ta me mets is bout par ces ceatesfrivoles4 Do they include in their one fell swoop the tale of 1roy divine, the tales of Boccaccio and Chaucer, the tales of the Princess Scheherazade A tale has been called the germ of every other kind of compositionof Novel, Tragedy, Comedy, Epic, and all. It is the first key to tune the infants heart, which swells up to the very eyes at its mothers tale. It is often the last to win its way into the fastness of age, which weeps, and thrills, and shakes its gray locks at nothing so much as at ~ Life and Letters, vol. ii. ~ See Guesses at Truth, vol. i., p. 151, 3d edition. ~ LEtourdi. a tale. Old Menenius Agrippa immortalized him- self by his faculty in this line of things, when he said to the seditious Romans (if we may quote Shakspeares poem as authority) I shall tell you A pretty tale; it may be, you have heard it; But, since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale t a little more.~ Assuredly the gift in question is no every-day one, and this gift Mr. Hawthorne possesses in no corn- mon degree. We need but allude to Lady Eleanors Mantle, Rappaccinis Daughter, Roger Melvins Burial, The Birth-Mark, Yo~sng Goodman Browne, The Haunted Mine, & c. His stories have been likened to Tiecks, in their power of translating the mysteri- ous harmonies of nature into articulate meanings; and to T~ipffers, in high finish and purity of style. Perhaps the chief fascination about them is their unworldliness. The self-willed wandering of dreamy thought in such pieces (how Elia would have greeted them with an Ah benedicite !) as Monsieur du Miroir, Earths Holocaust, and the Procession of Life, is delightful. What caustic and comprehensive mental analysis in the Christmas Banquet ! What Bunyan-like dis- cernment in the Celestial Railroad ! What spiritual insight in the Bosom Serpent! But we must pause, mn deference to our compositors stock of marks of admiration, and to the gentle readers over-strained quality of mercy. Mr. Hawthorne, we are told, is astonished at his own celebrity, and thinks himself the most over- rated man in America. Let him bring out of his treasures things new and oldother original legends and other twice-told talesand we can promise him a fresh and increasing fund of aston- ishment, until, like Katerfelto, his hait stand on end at his own wonders. And so we bid him very heartily farewell! THa scheme for an Ocean Penny Postage, chimer- ical as it may have looked to many on a first glance, continues to gain converts in quarters where to gain an interest is a necessary step to a fair trial of its merits. Within the last few days a meeting has been held in Manchester, at which the mayor presided and many of the best-known men of the district were named a committee to carry out the views of its origin- ators. Ia London, a deputation from the society formed during the Great Exhibition for the same purpose has had an interview with Lord Granville at his official residence, in which they impressed on the mind of the new foreign secretary the importance of taking an early opportunity of inviting continental and other nations to a friendly consideration of the point. Lord Granville said as much in reply as official reserve would allow. He observed that it was the true interest of this country to promote peace and interchange between nations, and that, therefore, in his opinion a system of cheap postage was desirable as a means of facilitating the easy and rapid inter- change of knowledge and ideas. But the details, he said, must be considered by the chancellor of the exchequer. He pledged himself to give every sup- port in the power of his office to the views of the dep- utation. The public will soon have an opportunity of learning the opinions of other ministers on this interesting topic, for we understand that Mr. Milner Gibson, one of the deputation, is prepared to bring ~ bill.before Parliament in the coming session, when a fair appeal can be made to the country through its representatives..dthenceusa. ~ Coriolania~. 19 THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF BARTHOLD GEORGE NIEBUHR. From the Examiner. The Ljfe and Letters of Bartleold Geor5 c Niebuhr. With Essays on his Character and Infinence by the Chevalier BUNSEN and Professors BRANDIS and LOEBELL. Two vols. Chapman and Hall. WE are duly forewarned in the preface to this work, that It is founded upon one entitled Lebensnachrichten iiber Barthold Georg Niebulir, which is chiefly com- posed of extracts from Niebuhrs letters ; though a short narrative, intended to explain these, and fill up the chasms they leave in his history, is prefixed to each of the periods into which it is divided. The prin- cipal editor of the Lebensnachrichten was Madame Hensler, Niebuhrs sister-in-law, to whom most of the letters are addressed. The Lebensnachrichten, however, have heen rath- er adapted to judicious use than simply trans- lated. All the best stones have been brought from the old German obelisk, and others carefully sought wherewith to fill up gaps in the erection of this new English monument to Niebuhrs memory. Madame Henslers narrative, although new facts are added, has been much condensed. The num- ber of Niebnhrs letters has been lessened, though in this, as in the German work, Niebuhrs own writing occupies by far the largest portion of the book. Letters have been omitted that appeared too learned for a miscellaneous public; while at the same time the character and proportions of the whole body of the correspondence have been pre- served exactly as they were represented by Nie- bnhrs livelong friend, the sisterof his first wife, the woman who herself would have been Niebuhrs only wife, had she not been when she first met him a young widow vowed to preserve with con- stancy allegiance to her first love. To the Life as it lies now before us we have only to give unreserved commendation. It is em- phatically a good hook, and the result of careful and conscientious labor. The subject is of the best. Niebuhr was born predminently gifted, was trained by intellectual and tender parents, and his whole career is one story of the progress made by a mind which united extraordinary powers with untiring industry. But Niebuhr was not only horn to achieve greatness. He achieved love and friendship in every relation of his life; he was a high-minded and in the purest sense of the word an earnest man. In intellect he was a giant among us; but in him - the intellect was not a statue raised above the moral life, on which it trod as on a pedestal, a block of mere stone-masons work; his heart had not been used up in the making of his brains, or his soul cleared out a sacrifice to make room for a new stock of understanding. We may yield our minds up to admire Niebuhr unreservedly, and it is pleasant therefore to get a Lfe of him in Eng- lish, so full as this is of the actual man, as he poured out portions thereof to his bosom friends, and wherein the large lumps of true Niebuhr gold are contained in a biographic deposit which itself is a - long way removed front dross. The quiet, unaf- fected way in which her work has been ddne by the English writer of the book before us, her ele- gant simplicity of style, her thorough mastery of the subject, enable us to pass from Life to Letters, and from Letters back to Life, without any sense but of a perfect harmony between both. The two volumes are of a kind that can be read through from the beginning to the end with unremitting pleasure. We strongly suspect that Nicbuhr, at the age of twelve, would have bewildered with his knowl- edge some few of our dniversity professors. Here is part of a sketch, representing him when he was not very far removed from long clothes How keenly alive he was to poetical impressions ap- pears from a letter of Bojes, written in 1783: This reminds me of little Niebuhr. His docility, his indus- try, and his devoted love for me procure me many a pleasant hour. A short time back I was reading Macbeth aloud to his parents without taking any notice of him, till I saw what an impression it m de upon him. Then I tried to render it all intelli ible to him, and even explained to him how the witches were only poetical beings. When I was gone, he a down, (he is not yet seven years old,) and wrote it all out on seven sheets of paper without omitting one im- portant point, and certainly without any expectation of receiving praise for it ; for, when his father asked to see what he had written, and showed it to me, lie cried for fear he had not done it well. Since then he writes down everything of imnportance that he hears from his father or cue. We seldom praise him, hut just quietly tell him where he has made any mistake, and he avoids the fault for the future. The childs character early exhibited a rare union of the faculty of poetical insight with that of accurate practical observation. The amusements he contrived for himself afford an illustration of this. During the periods of his confinement to the house, before he was old enough to have any paper given him, he covered with his writings and drawings the margins of the leaves of several copies of Forskaals works, which were used in the house as waste paper. Then he niade copy-books for himself, in which he wrote essays, mostly on political subjects. He had an ilnag- mary empire called Low England, of which he drew neaps, and he promulgated laws, waged wars, and niade treaties of peace there. His father was pleased that he should occupy himself with amusements of this kind, and his sister took an active part in them. There still exist among his papers many of his child- ish productions ; among others, translations and in- terpretations of passages of the New Testament, poet- ical paraphrases from the classics, sketches of little poems, a translation of Poncets Travels in Ethiopia, an historical and geographical description of Africa, written in 1187 (the two last were undertaken as pres- ents to his father on his birth-day), and many other things mostly written during these years. Here is Niebuhr, ut the age of thirty-four, Pro- fessor in Berlin, after he had retired from official trusts which had imposed as many toils upon bin) as would have made an enormously active life foe one of the most ancient tenants of our English pen sion-hist to look back upon. Niebuhrs relinquishment of office, in 1810, forms an important epoch in his life. He was acow thirty four years of age, and since his twentieth year, (with the exception of the sixteen months passed in En~land and Scotland,) had been actively engaged in the pub lie service. During this period he had, indeed, never lost sight of his philological researches, but he had only been able to devote to them his few hours of leis- ure; now it was to be seen whether he could find satisfaction in the life of a student, after years passed in the midst of the great world, and surrounded by excit- ing circumstances. How far he had, however, turned these leisure hours to account, may be judged by the following memorandum, found, with many others of a similar kind, among his papers, and written most probably in Copenhagen about 1803. Works which I have to complete: 1. Treatise on Roman Domains. 2. Translation of El Wakidi. 3. History of Macedon. 4. Account of the Roman Constitution at its various Epochs. 20 THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF BARTHOLD GEORGE NIEBUHR. 5. History of the Achman Confederation, of the Wars of the Confederates, and of the Civil Wars of Marius and Sylla. 6. Constitutions of the Greek States 7. Empire of the Caliphs. No detailed outlines of these, or any of his other literary undertakings, are to be found hut it must not be inferred th~ t such memoranda contain mere projects, towards whose execution no steps were ever taken. That Niebuhr proposed any such work to himself, was a certain sign that he had read and thou~ht deeply on the subject, hut he was able to trust so implicitly to his extraordinary memory, that he never committed any portion of his essays to paper, till the whole was complete in his own mind. His memory was so wonderfully retentive, that he scarcely ever forgot anything which he had once heard or read, and the facts he knew remained present to him at all times, even in their minutest details. His wife and his sister once playfully took up Gib- bon, and asked him questions from the table of con- tents about the most trivial things, by way of testing his memory. They carried on the examination till they were tired, and gave up all hope of even detecting him in a momentary uncertainty, though he was at the s~ me time engaged in writing on some other suh- ject. He was once conversing with a party of Aus- trian officers about Napoleons Italian campaigns. Some dispute arose respecting the position of different corps in the battle of larengo. Niebuhr described ex- actly how they were placed; and the progress of the ac- tion. The officers contradicted him ; hut on maps heing brought he wes found to be in the ri~ht, and to know more of the details of the conflict than the very officers who had been present.. One day, when he was talk- ing with Professor Weleker, of 13o n, the conversation happened to turn on the weather, and Niebuhr quoted the results of barometrical observations in the different years, as far back as 1770, with perfect accuracy. This power was not a merely mechanical faculty ; it was intimately connected with the power of instan- taneously seizing on all the relations of any fact placed before him, and with his wonderful ima~ination ; his ima0ination, however, was that of an historian, not of a poetit was not creative, but enabled him to form from the most various, and apparently inade- quate sources, distinct and truthfal pictures of scenes, actions and characters. hence his keen delight in travels: hence, too, his habit of pronouncin~ judy- ment on the men of other countries and of past times, with all the warmth of a fellow-countryman and a contemporary. With his warm affections, and ~clear-sighted moral sense, it was impossible for him to form such opinions on past or present history, coolly standing aloof, as it were, and regarding the subject with calm superiority he could not but condemn and despise all that was pernicious and base ; he could not but love and rever- ence, with his whole heart, whatever was noble and beautiful. Such opinions ~nd feelings he expressed with the utmost frankness, sometimes even with vehe- mence, when prudence would have counselled more guarded language. Here is Professor Niebuhr holding up a bright ex- ample to our friends who fear to look rid~culons in rifle clubs in his name as a volunteer to the Landwehr. He would have preferred enterinn a regular regiment, and applied to the king for permission to do so; hut~ this request was refused by him, and he added that he would give hii other commissions more suited to his talents. Niebuhrs friends in Holstein could hardly trust their eyes when he wrote them word that he was drill- ing for the army, sad that his wife entered with equal enthusiasrt~ into his feelings. The greatness of the object had so inspired Madame Niebuhr, who was usually anxious, even to a morbid extent, at the slightest imaginable peril for the husband in whom she might be truly said to live, that she was willing and ready to bring even her most precious treasure as a sacrifice to her country. Hitherto we have quoted the biography, but on this point, and at a time when we are seeking to forearm ourselves against the chance of evil, it may edify us to hear Niebuhr himself speak on the theme of ball practice. Niebuhr, it should be remembered, writes at a time when two volumes of his great work, the History of Rome, had been appreciated by the public I come from an employment in which you will hardly be able to fancy me engagednamely, exer- cising. Even before the departure of the French, I began to go tlirou~h the exercise in private, but a man can scarcely acquire it without companions. Since the French left, a party of about, twenty of us have been exercising in a garden, and we have already got over the most difficult part of the training. When my lectures are concluded, which they will be at the beginning of next week, I shall try to exercise with regular recruits during the mornin~, and as often as possible practise shooting at a mark By the end of a month I hope to be as well drilled as any recruit who is considered to have finished his training. The heavy musket gave me so much trouble at first, that I almost despaired of being able to handle it but we are able to recover the powers again that we have only lost for want of practice. I am h~ ppy to say that my hands are growing horny; for as long as they had a delicate bookworms skin, the musket cut into them terribly. And now let us give a view of Niebnhr as Pro- fessor in Bonn, together with a few well-written notes upon his character We Ii ye seen that, at Berlin, Niebuhr delivered his lectures verbatim from written notes. At Bonn, on the contrary, his only preparation cofisisted in medi- tating for a short tinie on the subject of his lecture, and referring to authorities for his data, when he found it necessary, an(l lie brought no written notes with him to the lecture-room. Ills success in imparting his ideas varied greatly at different times, as it de- pended alniost entirely on his mental and physical condition at the moment. lie always felt a certain dif- ficulty in expressing himself. He grasped his sub- ject as a whole, and it was not easy to him to retrace the steps by which he had arrived at his results. Hence his style was harsh and often disjointed ; and yet he possessed a species of eloquence whose value~ is of a high orderthat of making the expression On the evacuation of Berlin by the French in Feb., the exact reflection of the thoughtthat of embodying 1813, Niebuhr sh. red in the national rejoicings, and each sep rate idea in an adequate, but not redundant not less in the enthusiasm displayed in the prepara- form. The discourse was no dry, impersonal state tions for the complete re-conquest of freedom. When the ment of facts and arguments, or even opinions Landwehr was called out, he refused to evade serving the whole man, with his conceptions, feelings, in it, as he could take no other part in the war. His moral sentiments, nay, passions too, was mirrored wish was to act as ecretary to the general staff; but forth in it. Hence Niebuhr not merely informed if this were not possible, he meant to enter the ~ervice and stinmulated the minds of his hearers, hut attracted as a volunteer with sm e of his friends. For this their affections. That he did this in an eminent de purpose he weot through time exercises, and when the gree, was not indeed owing to his lectures alone, but time came for those of his age to be summoned, sent also to his kind and generous conduct. All who de 21 22 mE LIFE AND LETTERS OF BARTHOLD GEORGE NJEBUHR. served it were sure of his sympathy and assistance, much in request at that time, from the universal in- whether oppressed by intellectual difficulties, or pecu- terest felt in their contents, he did not in general go Diary cares. During the first year, he delivered his to the public reading-rooms where he was accustomed lectures without remuneration; afterwards, on its to see the papers daily, until the evening. On Christ- being represented to him that this would be injurious mas Eve and the following day, he was in better to other professors, who could not afford to do the health and spirits than lie had been for a long while same, he consented to take fees, but employed them but on the evening of the 25tl~ of December, lie spent in assisting poor scholars and founding prizes. He a considerable time waiting and reading in the hot often, however, still remitted the fee privately, when news-room, without taking off his thick fur cloak, and he- perceived that a young man could not well afford then returned home, through the bitter frosty night it, and never took any from friends, air, heated in mind and body. Still full of the im But those who were admitted to his domestic circle pression made on him by the papers, he went straight were the class most deeply indebted to him. His in- to Classens room, and exclaimed, That is true elo- terest in all subjects of scientific or moral importance quence! You must read Sauzets speech; he alone was always lively ; and it was impossible to be in his declares the true state of the ense; that this is no company without deriving some accession of knowl- question of law, but an open battle between hostile edge and incentive to good. From his associates, he powers! Sauzet must be no common man! But, only required a warm and pure heart and a sincere he added immediately, I have taken a severe chill, love of knowledge, with a freedom from affectation or I must go to bed. And from the couch which he arrogance. Where he found these, he willingly then sought, lie never rose again, except for one hour, adapted himself to the wants and capacities of his two days afterwards, when he was forced to return to Companions ; would receive objections mildly, and it quickly, with warninb symptoms of,his approaching take pains to answer them, even when urged by end. mere youths, and weigh carefully every new idea pre- His illness lasted a week, and was pronounced, on seated to him. lie was fond of society, and while his the fourth day, to be a decided attack of inflammation irritability not seldom gave rise to slight misunder on the lungs. His hopes sank at first, but rose with standings and even temporary estrangements in the his increasing danger a~d weakness; even on the circle of his acquaintance, there were some fm~ends with morning of the last day lie said, I may still recover. whom he always remained on terms of unbroken in- Two days before, his thithful wife, who had exerted timacy, among whom may be named Professors Bran- herself beyond her strength in nursing him, fell ill dis, Arndt, Nitzsch, Bleek, N~.ke, Welcker, and Hull- and was obliged to leave him. TIe then turned his weg. He enjoyed wit in others, and in his lighter face to the wall, and exclaimed with the most pain moods racy and pointed sayings escaped him not ful presentiment, Hapless house! To lose father unfrequently. and mother at once ! And to the children he said, His intercourse was not confined to literary circles. Pray to God, children ! He alone can help us ! In all the civil affairs of the town and neighborhood And his attendants saw that he himself was seeking he took an active interest from principle as well as comfort and strength in silent prayer. But when inclination, for he considered a man as no good citi- his hopes of life revived, his active and powerful mind zen who refused to take his share of the public busi- soon demanded its wonted occupation. The studies ness of the neighborhood in which he lived ; and the that had been dearest to him through life, remained loss which left so great a blank in the world of let- so in death ; his love to them was proved to be pure ters, was also deeply regretted by his fellow-townsmen and genuine by its umiwavering perseverance to the of Bonn. last. While he was on his sick bed, Classen read Niebuhrs mode of life at Bonn was very ve~ular, aloud to him for hours the Greek text of time Jewish and his habits simple. He hated show and unnecessary History of Josephus, and he followed the sense with luxury in domestic life. He loved art in her proper smich ease and attention, that he suggested several place, but could not bear to see her degraded into the emeimdations in the text at the moment; this may be mere minister of outward ease. His life imi his own called an unimportant circumstance, but it always family showed the erroneousness of the assertion that appeared to us one of the most wonderful proofs of his a thorough devotion to learning is inconsistent with mental powers. The last learned work in which lie the claims of family affection, lie liked to hear of all was able to testify his interest, was the description of the little household occurrences, and his sympathy Rome by Bunsen arid his friends, whmicb had just been was as ready for the little sorrows of his children as sent to him ; the preface to the first volume was mead for the misfortunes of a nation. He was in the habit of aloud to him, and called forth expressions of pleasure rising-at seven in the morning, and retiring at eleven, and approbation. He also asked for light readimmg to At the simple one oclock dinner, he generally con- pass the time, but our attempts t.o satisfy him were versed cheerfully upon the contents of the newspapers unsuccessful. A friend proposed the Briefe dries which lie had just looked through. The conversation Verstorbenen, which was then making a great son- was usually continued during the walk which he took sation; but lie declined it, saying he feared that its immediately afterwards. The building of a house, or levity would jar upon his feelings. One of Coopers the planting of a garden, had always an attraction novels was recommended to hinm, and excited his ridi- for him, and he used to watch the measuring of a cule by its extr~ ordinary verbiage; he was much wall, or the breaking open of an entrance, with the amused by tryin~ an experiment lie proposed, which same species of interest with which he observed the consisted in taking one period at hap-hazard on each development of a political organization. The family page ; amid by the discovery that this mode of reading drank tea at eight oclock, when any of his acquaint- did little violence to the connexion of the story. The ance were always welconme. But during the hours Colnishe Zeitung was read aloud to him up to the spent in his library, his whole being was absorbed in last day, with extracts fmom time French and other his studies, and hence he got through an immense journals, lie asked for them expressly, only twelve amount of work in an incredibly short time. hours before his death, and gave his opinion half in Finally, here is the death of the immortal his jest about the change of ministry in Paris. But on torman - the afternoon of the 1st of January, 1831, be sank into a dreanmy slumber once, on awakening, he said The last political occurrence in which Niebuhr was that pleasant images floated before him in sleep: now strongly interested, was the trial of the ministers of and then he spoke French in his dreams ; probably he Charles the Tenth; it was indirectly the cause of his felt hiniself in the presence of his departed friend, Do death. He read the reports in the French jo~irnals Serre. As the night gathered, consciousness gradu- with eager attention; and as these newspapers were ally faded away; he woke up once more about mid- 23 IEATH OF FRAZEE.NEW OMNIBUS.MOUNT ZAHARAH. night, when the last remedy was administered; he recognized in it a medicine of doubtful operation, never resorted to but in extreme cases, and said in a faint voice, What essential substance is this? Am I so far gone? These were his last words ; he sank baek on his pillow, and within an hour his noble heart had ceased to beat. Niebuhrs wife died nine days after him, on the 11th of the same month, about the same hour of the night. She died, in fact, of a broken heart, though her disease was, like his, an inflammation of the chest.. She could shed no tears, though she longed for them, and prayed God to send them; once her eyes grew moist, when his picture was brought to her at her own request, but they dried again, and her heavy heart was not relieved. She had her children often with her, particularly her son, and gave them her parting counsels. And so her loving and pure soul went home to God. Both rest in one grave, over which the present King of Prussia has erected a monu- ment to the memory of his former instructor and counsellor. The children were placed under ~he care of Madame Hensler, at Kiel. Our copious extracts from the biographic portion of the work xviii amply satisfy the mind of any one who needs more than report to convince him of the tact and good taste which have presided over the transformation of Madame Henslers Lebensnccli- richten into a readable and interesting book, which is likely to be read for years as the best English record of a life that will be looked back upon with interest by all posterity. he executed an inimitable head of that extraordinary man. Among his other productions were heads of General Lafayette, in 1824, De Witt Clinton, John Jay, Bishop Hobart, Dr. Milnor, Dr. Stearns, Nathaniel. Prime, George Griswold, Eli Hart, & c. The monument, however, which is destined to per- petuate his fame is that classic structure, the New York Custom house. This edifice was commenced in 1834 by another gentleman, who, when he had fin- ished the base, abandoned the work and withdrew his plans. Mr. Frazee was obliged to commence de novo~ and in 1843 had completed a work which is the ad- miration of his own countrymen and all intelligent Europeans who visit us. During the erection of the Custom House, from the dampness of its material and concomitant causes, he contracted a disorder which caused paralysis, from which he never recovered. For several years he held a subordinate post under the collector ; but party discipline demanded its victim, and the architect of that noble structure was driven from the little room which sheltered his enfeebled fr me. Prok pudor! Proh dolor! his last effort with the chisel was in giving th~ finishing touch to the bust of Gen. Jackson, which had remained in his studio seventeen years, without an order for completion. This was in November last, aud while assiduously at work, his mallet fell from his hand, and his worn-out body followed it to the floor. Peace to the memory of a man of worth. c. r. From the N. Y. Times. NEW OMNIuUs.During its twenty years existence the London Omnibus has scarcely undergone a single DEATH OF FRAZEE, THE ARTIST. alteration for the betterexcept as regards price. Yet there are few things in which improvement would Tuis distinguished artist died last week, at the res- add to the comfort of so many persons. A new idea idence of his daughter in New Bedford, at the age of has just been started in the way of omnibus con- sixty years. Mr. Frazee filled so large a space in the struction. The chief novelty consists in the fixet that affections of the citizens of this metropolis that it the seats, capable of accommodating ten passengers in- would be matter of supererogation to speak of him, side, are detached, somewhat after the style of those except to record his lamented demise ; but his fixme in first-class railway carriages, and so contrived that abroad may require a niore extended notice. the passengers sit with their faces to the horses, Mr.- Frazee was a native of Brunswick, New Jersey, leaving a clear passage up the centre of from eighteen where he passed his youth at hard labor on a farm, to twenty inches in width and six feet four inches in and subsequently adopted the trade of stone-cutter, height. The passage is covered in by a semi-circular which employment developed the genius which after- glass roof, by which means ample light is obtained. ward led to the celebrity he so signally deserved. The ventilation is effected by interstices over the He removed to this city about the year 1820, opened windows in each compartment, and perforated metal a shop, and soon outstripped all competitors in the pannels in the door of the vehicle :which altogether beauty and finish of his monuments, tablets, orna- weighs no more when loaded than the usual omni- mented mantels, and the delicacy of his lettering, buses. At the head of the vehicle is. an alarm bell, to For many years he had few rivals and no superior in communicate to the driver and conductor, accessible his profession, and orders beset him from all quarters to all the passengers. There are also a couple of clips in this country, and many from foreign countries, for newspapers, an almanac, indicator, and a lamp. His succ~ss in this department was complete, and The inventor of this vehicle is said to be a private gen- satisfied all his reasonable expectations. tleman having no property in omnibuses and no con- He next turned his attention to sculpture, and, at nexion with the road. the reqnest of the Bar of New York, was employed in the Mural Tablet and Bust of John Welles, which fills a conspicuous place in St. Pauls Church. MOUNT ZAIIAxASiThere exists on Mount Zaharah,. This is considered by connoisseurs as the most elabor- in an island of the Red Sea, an emerald mine, which ate and hi~hly finished piece of sculpture ever wrought the Pacha of Egypt has for a long time wished to - in America. work, and which had been abandoned in the latter end - This production, with others, which he subsequently of Mehemet Ahis reign. A British company lately executed, attracted the attention of the trustees of solicited and obtained permission to re-commence the--. the Boston Athenuam, and at their request, in 1834, works. In executing some operations lately, Mr.. he proceeded thence, and modelled a series of busts Allan, the ccmpanys engineer, discovered at a great. of eminent men in that city, which now adorn that depth a gallery of the niost remote antiquity. He classic repository. They were of Webster, Bowditch, succeeded in finding ancient tools and utensils, and a. Prescott, Story, J. Lowell, and T. H. Perkins. After- stone on which were engraved hieroglyphic characters. ward he went, by special order, to Richmond, where in a great measure erased. The nature and form of he produced the renowned likeness of John Marshall, the tools, utensils and gallery prove that the ancient -, copies of which adorn the court-rooms of New York, Egyptians had made great progress in engineering. - New Orleans, and the capitol of Virgiiiia. On his It would appear, on studying the stone, t.hat the date-K return he visited President Jackson, at whose house j of the mine goes back as far as about 1650 years p.o.- THE DRUSES. THE EMIR OF THE DRUSES AND THE CORRE SPONDENT OF THE MORNING CHRONICLE. A VERY long ride had nearly brought me to the con- el~siou of my first prolonged journey, when my guide proposed a short cut to the residence of an Emir of th~ Druses, whose charmingly situated dwelling looks upon a little bay southward of the city. We had done with the rest of the cavalcade, and had left it early in the morning with orders to present itself at Beirout as soon as might be. It was growing dusk, and the short cut, performed with the usual recklessness of my attendant, was down a very steep slope, com- posed, as the clanking of the plates with which the horses are shod soon told me, of rock, made smooth by a watercourse. lie was not, moreover, quite sure about his road, and every now and then we pulled up at some particularly awkward hollow or gully, into which he thought it mi~ht be as well not to plunge until he was quite sure it was not entirely out of our way. Finally we came to a dead halt. As the shades were coming on thickly, and it was obvious that we were proceeding by guess-work, which would have been of rio consequence on decent ground, but which, as the horses lost their foot-hold incessantly, nd there was clearly no saying into what hole or abyss we might plunge in the dark, I judged it very convenient (as Lady Mary Wortley Montague says) to take a decided course. o I made my guide disfnoun~, and give me his rein, and then I requested he would dis- cover the road, somehow or other, nd, in the mean time, I proposed to wait his return in a tolerably con- venient handing-place, upon which we planted the horses. He was more inclined to go on as we were but, as I was obstinate, he started on the quest, and I lit a chibouk. He was absent a louw time ,andl had ample leisure for meditation, not unmixed with speculation, as to what sort of a night I should spend if I lost my guide alto~ether. The Syrian stars came out one by one; and, bri0ht as they looked, they made everything seem colder. The question was assuming a serious form, when I heard a call at a considerable distance, and when it was repeated again and again, the utterer scorned to be going round me; and so, con- cluding that Joseph could not find the spot, I fired a pistol as a signal. The sudden report, in the dead silence, was taken up by many echoes, but I was more comforted by hearing the voice of several dogs in answer, obviously at no great distance. It was a long time still before my guide returned, but he ultimately did so, out of breath, arid very eager. Almost befire lie would speak lie had turned the horses heads up the slope, and had scrambled into his saddle, He then found time to tell me that we Ii d been going all wrong, and had been getting near a very dangerous place, but that now he knew where lie was. We scaled the slippery hill, and struck away from the top, at another angle, speedily getting into a tolerably 0ood path. Half an hours riding brought us into a large area, as it seemed to me, surrounded on three sides by buildings, and I heard the plasli of the sea. Some large dogs, prQbably those who had answered my sig- nal, came growling about us, but the guides calls brought out two or three serv~ nts, to whoni he briefly explained that we h d come to see the Emir, and to stay with him for the night. The Emir, however, was not at home ; he had gone out hawking, and, to the astonishment of his people, was still absent. The best thing we could do was to come into the house and wait for himhe could not be very long; people did not hawk in the dark; besides, his brother was there, and would receive us. I thought, under the circum stances, that we might go further and fare worse, so sent in my message, and was speedily invited to enter. The room was by no means so comfortable as that of my friend the blind chief of the hill, but it was more pretentiously furnished ; the divan was lofty, and the ushions richly coveredthere was also a curtain at the enormous ugly window, and, so far as I could see by the lamplight, some attempts at ornamental paint- ing on the ceiling. I afterwards found that the Emir had a decided taste for French and En~hish furniture, in which respect he resembles the Sultan, whose charming kiosk at Constantinople is fitted up like an English gentlem~ iis cottage orn~e. Placed upon the elevated divan, I waited a lon~ tir~e before anybody appeared, but at last the Emirs brother and a young nephew entered. They were richly dressed, and their manners were most courteous, the repose,~~ so char- acteristic of oriental style, being seen to excellent advantage. Speakin~ for the Emir, the brother bade me a hearty welcome, but I observed that he did not order a pipe to be brought me. The nephew, a boy of about twelve, was one of the handsomest and most intelhi~ent lads I have ever seen. lie was encouraged by his uncle to talk to the stranger, and he poured out a strin, of questions, not, however, in the r tthing European style, but with self-possession, and he waited carefully for the answers, arid m do sure lie under- stood th& m. This young pagan gentlemans inquiries were directed to higher matters than those which had occupied the attention of my Mohammedan or Chris- t.ian entertainers in Syria. The most troublesome of his investigations was that into the nature of the contrivance for sending messages in a moment from one place to another, the fame of which had reached them. Not to be able to explain this would have been humiliating ; to explain it truthfully to people who had as much notion of electricity as I have of the social coiidition of Uranus, was a task from which I think even Coleridge himself (whose explanations were the largest upon record) would have shrunk. I was obliged to t ke a middle course, and state that iron rods of great length were so agitated by machinery at one end as to vibrate at the other, and I took some credit to niyself for having told, not the truth, but what was as near the truth as the hospitable heathens could comprehend. It m y also be not amiss to state that, on my inquirin~ whether the young Druse would like to visit Europe, he replied that it would give him treat pleosure to do so, but that it would occasion so much concern to his relatives, that lie did not enter- tain the idea ; an answer which, conning from one wIno was no better than a pagan, struck nie a proper enou~h. He demanded, in return, whether I had any relatives, and, if so, whether I was travelling with their consent? His manner of talk reminded me of the page Eudemon, who, Rabelais tells us, was brought to Grangrousiers court to shame the young Gargantun out of his ignorant idleness With a clear nd open countenance, ruddy lips, his eyes steady, and his looks straight, began ~racefully to coonmond Gargan tun, first, for his virtue and good manners secoiid, for his knowledge ; third, for his nobility ; fourth, for his bodily accomplishments ; arid, in the fifth place, most sweetly exhorted bun to reverence his tinther with all due observamicy, who was so careful to have him well brought up. Whereto all Gargautnas an- swer was that lie fell to crying like a n if I ought further to mention that gas-hightin~ was another topic on which the young gentleman had thought a good deal, or at all events put some sensible inquiries. I found afterwards th t this lad was the hope of the distinguished family to which he belongs. Ills father had been in great favor with the Emir, but lied chosen to plunge into all sorts of disreputable courses, and had been discarded, but the boy had Jven sigins of so much intelligence arid docility that Inc had been adopted by lois formidable uncle, and was in tin ining to become a elnief among his people. He interested me much. After a long conversation, a trampling of horses in the court-yard announced mfn arrival, and tIne Emir himself shortly afterwards entered. My dragoman had hurried out to inform him of my arrival, so when he came in he was prepared to welcome his guest. 24 THE DRUSES. 25 His face was the darkest I ever saw where no black My sleeping quarters were assi~ ned to me in a large blood ran, and the Corsairs glittering eye and room across the court. I confess it did not, prepossess black brows sable gloom were at once before me. me, and, on entering it, its loftiness, solitariness, and He was richly dressed, in a fur-edged mantle of violet gloom, made it resemble the tomb of the Capulets, as velvet, much embroidered, and wore an ornamented represented on the stage. It was certainly eighteen velvet cap. He walked with dignity, and was rather feet high and five-and-twenty square, and the li~bt of reserved during such of our interview as passed in the a solitary l~ mp gave it a very funereal appearance. presence of others. He immediately issued orders But a legion of servants c~ me in with mattresses and which his relatives had, I suppose, not presum ed to cushions and quilts, nnd under my dragomans direc- give in his absence. One of the most ma~nifi~ent tion I was soon in a most comfortable bed, and the pipes I ever heldabout ten feet long, and covered distant plash of the Mediterranean quickly sent me with embroidered velvet, and with brilliants at the off. When I woke, the sunshine of a glorious morning mouth-piecewas brought to me, and delicious coffee wa. forcing its way through various crevices and as served, the filigree cup-stand being very elegant. cracks in the boards nailed over certain square holes, He said that the delay in his return had been caused which nobody but an oriental or a tax-gatherer would by the loss of one of his hawks, which had flown away; have called windows. It was worth sleeping in that but upon nmy expressing a regret at a circumstance so dim vault, to appreciate the sensation which followed annoying to a sportsman, he s~ iled very graciously, as I flung open the door and stood in the glow and and said that the balance of the days adventures left freshness of the Syrian morning. an advantage with himhe had lost~ bird and found The group in the area of the house was picturesque. a guest. I do not think one of Dumas courtly old Two or three black grooms, with red body-cloth feudal barons could have said a more polite thing. ing, were rubbing d own a couple of fine horses ; a Explaining that be had ordered food to be prepared, little knot of dusky boys, sonic of them naked, were (which was a particularly agreeable sound to me,) he standing or sprawhin~, playing so~ e game with white took up the conversationhis nephew eagerly repeat- ston& , and showbig their whiter teeth at every instant. mug to him part of what had already passed-iand lie On a dwarf wall on the sea side of the area sat a tall, requested another explanation of the electric telegraph, handsome falconer, in white, with a red sash ~nd cap, I got away from this as quickly as I could to topics and on his wrist was perched one of the Emirs large which (as the Squire in Tom Jones says of reli hawks. here was a cluster of servants of all, colors, gion, politics, and drink,) are thimigs we all under- crouchimig in the shade of an angle of the house, and stand, and we took up tIme hawkimig,. and lie was smokin~ ; and the whole court w 5 studded with dogs sedulous in inquiring whether the king of my country of various kinds (chiefly rubbish); I counted sixteen. ever h whed. I explained that may sovereign seldom And as I came out, one of the trim pages of the Emir indulged in this a immusenment, but that there was a was standin~ on a high step, looking passively down nobleman of the highest rank who was always feeding upon the party. Nobody seemed to move as I came cyases with unwashed meat, in case the royal t ste to my door, but in less than a minute a servant was should set in that direction. Dinner was speedily by my side with a lighted pipe, and in five minutes announced. The passage to the dining-room was alone more a huge circular tray, containing eight or nine some intricate and rather rough passages, a sort of different mate. isis for a bre. kfast, was on its way to h~ nd-ladder being among the means of ascent ; but it me across the court. The delicate sweetmeats which was a very snug little room when I got there, with a time hospitality of my pagan host sent me were perfect. French clock in it, and some flower-paintings round Among them was a large saucer full of time favorite the walls. The brother of the Ernir, and the little white elastic composition to which I have elsewhere nephew were present, although they touched notlmin~, adverted, and which is made of the inspissated juice and were both exceedingly attentive to my comforts, of the grape ; it is called pekmez Subsequently, The repast itself contained fewer dishes, but those far three of the hawks were brought for umy inspection better cooked, than I had been in time habit of seeing they were beautiful birds, but I have seen finer in on oriental tables. Rodgers cutlery was upon England. Tb. hood nd jesses were not models of the the board, as usual. After dinner I was invited to ornithological tailors skill. join the great man in his private divan. This was a The Emnir sent to ask me to stay all day . ad go capital little roommi, a luxurious row of cushions alon~ hawking with him, but my engagements forbade this, one side, chintz curtains festooned, and with rings us and I went into the little room to th nk him for his Parisian fisshmion, and a most beautiful carpet, of hospitality and say farewell. While smokin~ the last exceeding softimes, on the floor. There were nina chibomnk, a little scene occurred which may be mvorth mnent.s in the roomalabaster vases, French, with remembering. A tolerably well-dressed, handsome artificial flowers, and two clocks, neither of them man canine in, very humbly, amid with maimy signs of goin~. The Enmir was curled- up in a corner, and a humiliation implored sonic favor of time Emir, which beautiful little page (whine looked exactly like one of the latter utterly refused to grant, waving off the the ballet-girl pages in one of Madame Vestris East petitioner, and resuming his conversation withs nine. em burlesques) relieved anothier equally pretty at- But oriental beggars are miot to be put off in thus nian tendant iii bringing him his cocoa-nut imerp1iil~. A ncr, nor will they take No, for an aminswer. The similar article was brought to me, and the dialogue petitioner withdrew as far as the door, amid seemed to lasted about two hours. It turned chiefly on ninihitary be waiting the turn of the market. He would not mattersthe Enmir h d heard, amon~ other things, interrupt us, but stood fidgeting, rubbing his shoulders that b iloons (which he understood so far as to be ag inst time doorposts, amid keeping an inmlorimi face aware that they ascended to ~reat heights) had been ready, in case the Emir should look his way. As employed in war. I said that the French had used soon as there was a pamise lie came form rd again, shed thuoum, and had sent up two or three officers when a few tears in the middle of the room, and crouched hesiegiming a certain city. Time Enmir was prompt with down, trying to get at mm corner of the Emnirs robe, to his reply, What was the use of two or three nien in put it to his lips ; but the latter dashed it from his an attack ? But he seenmed struck by the informa- hands, just as Kimig Richard Ill, acts when time Duke tion as to the seal object, and meditated thereon for a of Buckiugham asks him for the movables. Agala long tinme. Dumina the s~ence, an attendant came in defeated, the poor man drew oft; and rubbed hilnmself to anumounce that the host hawk had been found, upon against the door a little more, when a bright idea whileb the Emir gave directions that it should be taken seemed to occur to him, TIe slunk away, but pres- all care of, and turning to me said, in his previously ently returned with one of the Emirs servantsa fine manner, that it was obvious my visit had brought cook, I believewhom he mathier pushed forward into him good fortune. time room,, amid was obviously making him petition la THE LATE ELIOT WARBURTON. his favor. ~Che great man listened to the advocate with much attention, and then said something which implied that the request was granted. Instantly the original petitioner sprang forward, threw himself on his knees beside the divan, grabbed the dark hand of the Emir, despite his attempting to keep it to himself, fbndled it, moaned over it, kissed it and the robe, and I think the divan itself, and then slowly retired, looking fondly round, as if he could hardly prevent himself from coming back to repeat the same affectionate antics. He vanished at last, and, of course, I could not wit.h propriet.y ask the Emir what he had done, but I concluded that he had either given ~ slave his freedom, or consented to his marriage with the idol of his heart, or some such matter, which might extenuate such exuberant demonstrations. It was not until I got into the court that I learned the truth. The man wa~ an architect, and the Emir had expressed dissatisfaction at the way some dilapidations were being repaired, and had threatened to take away the job from him ; but, upon his agonized entreaty, had con- sented to let him carry out his specification, and pocket his commission. I thought of Mr. Barry, de- fying the three estates of the realm, and insisting on building their houses his own way; and I felt proud that I was the native of a land where architects com- prehend self-assertion. As regards these Druses, I mentioned in an earlier letter that there is considerable mystery about their religion, and that the Insane Hakim, Calif of Egypt, is generally understood to be the secret object of their devotion. You hear a different story about them from everybody you question, and, for themselves, they refuse to answer interpell~ tions on the subject. There are~writers who state that the Druses are devil-wor- shippers, but this, except in the sense in which all idolaters may be said to be so, appears an unfounded charge. It is stated, too, that they worship in secret the image of a golden calf, and that the conclusion of the ceremonial (which chiefly consists in the most lowly and frequent genuflexions and prostrations) is followed by the most licentious orgies. Another ac- count asserts that they have na exceedingly hideous idol, with legs covered with hair, who is usually kept in a sepulchre; but that on certain days of the dark side of the moon this deity is disinterred, and taken to be adored in a lonely place with sacrifices too loath- some to be even hinted at. It is difficult, of course, to offer an opinion upon the subject; but, from my con- versation with Europeans who had resided many years in Syria, I am inclined to think that many of the practices alleged to be those of the Druses are obsolete, and that the tenet of their creed to which they cling with most obstinacy, is that which tells them to detest the other religions of their country. Of their hospi- tality I can give personal account, and travellers concur in giving a good report of Druse honesty in transactions of business. Of course, in war time everything like an engagement is lost sight of by the oriental ; but herein the Druses are no worse than their neighbors. In point of private morals they are, I believe, quite as bad as the Mohammedans, and this is as much as need be said upon that point. A short ride over the red sandy soil I have alluded to in an earlier letter, and along lanes sentinelled with olive trees, (their bitter black fruit hanging down at your lips,) and guarded by stiff rows of the prickly pear, which is abundant here, and I was again in the little French hotel in Beirout, after m~ ny a hard days journey ; the vestiges of which expedition I duly got rid of, an hour afterwards, in a Turkish bath, where I was boiled, cracked, lathered, and smoked, in all the order of the appalling ceremony, which, as every traveller makes a point of describing it as minutely as if it were some newly discovered and valuable surgical operation, I will pass without further record. In my next letter I propose to deal with tesults. From the Dublin U. Magazine. THE LATE ELIOT WARBURTON. WITH sorrow of heart we take up our pen to record the death of Eliot Warburton. Every one who reads these pages is aware, we doubt not, of the disastrous circumstances under which this event occurred. We have no wish to open afresh wounds so recently closed, and inflict upon the public a recapitulation of the horrors connected with it. Indeed, we have noth- ing to tell. Affection, grief, and curiosity have alike failed to elicit a single particular bearing upon the fate of our unh. ppy countryman, beyond the simple fact of his having been seen on board the Amazon at the last moment. In all human probability, nothing further will ever be discovered. He is gone ; but it is our consolation that we can turn our eyes from an unknown death to a conspicuous life. These few lines all we have at our disposalare devoted to his memory: for we owe it as well to our readers as to ourselves to offer a slight tribute to the worth of one who, as an Irishman, was a credit to the literature of his country, and, as a contributor to this Magazine, commenced that career of authorship which he so successfully prosecuted till the close of his life. It was during an extended tour in the Mediterra- nean, about ten years ago, that Mr. Warburton sent some sheets of manuscript notes to Mr. Lever, at that time editor of the Dublin University .Jklagazine. These at once caught that gentlemans attention, and he gladly gave them publicity, under the title of Episodes of Eastern Travel, in successive num- bers of the Magazine,* where they were universally admired for the grace and liveliness of their style. Mr. Lever, however, soon saw that though for the purposes of his periodical these papers were extremely valuable, the author was not consulting his own best interests by continuing to give his travels to the world in that form ; and, with generous disinterestedness, advised him to collect what he had already published, add the remainder of his notes, and make a book of the whole. Mr. Warburton followed his advice, entered into terms with Mr. Colburn, and published his tr. vels under the title of The Crescent and the Cross. Of this book it is needless for us to speak. In spite of the formidable rivalry of an Edthen, which ap- peared about the same time, it sprung at once into public favor, and is one of the very few books of modern travels of which the sale has continued unin- terrupted through successive editions to the present time. Were we to pronounce upon the secret of its success, we should lay it to its perfect right-minded- ness. A changeful truth, a versatile propriety of feeling, initiates the author, as it were, into the heart of each successive subject ; and we find him as pro~ foundly impressed with the genius of the holy Land, as he is steeped, in the proper place, in the slumber- ous influences of the dreamy Nile, upon whose bosom he rocks his readers into a trance, to be awakened only by the gladsome originality of those melodies which come mirthfully on their cars from either bank. And, we may observe in passing, it is precisely the want of this, which prevents the indisputable power and grace of E5then from having their full effect with the public. Passages of beauty, almost of sub- limity, stand isolated from our sympathies by the interposed cynicism of a few caustic remarks ; and scenes of the worlds most ancient reverence and wor- ship become needlessly disenchanted under the spell of some sceptical sneer. But we must not turn aside to criticize. Since the publication of the Crescent and the Cross, Mr. Warhurton has written, or edited, a number of works, some historical, others of fiction, of which his last romance, Darien, only appeared as he was on the eve of departing on the fatal voyage. It has been remarked as a singular circumstance, that in this tale * See Dublin University Magazine, Vole. XXII., XXIII. 26 MEMOIUS OF GENERAL CANAJGNAC. he has prefigured his own fate. A burning ship is described in terms which would have served as a pic- ture of the frightful reality he was himself doomed to witness. The coincidence, casual as it is, has im- parted a melancholy interest to that story, which will long be wept over as the parting and presaging legacy of a gifted spirit, prematurely snatched away. These lighter effusions most probably grew out of the craving of the publishers for the prestige of his name, already found to be valuable even on title- pages; and the ready market they commanded could not but prove an incitement to continue and multiply them. This might be considered in an ulterior sense unfortunate; for we are inclined to think that the true bent of Mr. Warburtons mind, if not of his tal- ents, was towards graver and less imaginative studies and we know that this propensity was growing upon him with maturer years and soberer reflection. It is not exclusively from the bearing of his re- searches and the general drift of his correspondence that we infer this ; though both set latterly in that direction. He had for some time been actually at work with definite objects in view. One subject which he took up warmly was a British History of Ireland. That is, history intended to deal impartial justice between the Irish people on the one side, and the Brit- ish empire on the other ; reviewing the politics of suc- cessive periods, neit.her from the Irish nor the English side of the question, but with reference to the general interests of the whole. The task would have proved an arduous one, under any circumstancesperhaps an invidious one ; but, what was worse, even when accomplished, the book might have turned out a dull affair. So, with a view to lightening the reading, he had proposed to embody with it memoirs of the Vice- roys, thus keeping the British connexion prominent, while enlivening the pages with biographical touches. Acting on these ideas, he had actually begun a History of the Viceroys in conjunction with a lit- erary friend, and was only deterred from prosecuting it by the apathy, or rather discouragement, of the London publishers, who felt no inclination to venture upon an Irish historical speculation. Unfortunately, neither he nor his friend could afford to pursue the task gratuitously, and it was accordinjy abandoned. Still later, he employed himself in collecting materi- als for a History of the Poora vast theme ; perhaps too vast for a single intellect to grasp. To him, how- ever, it was a labor of love; and he had succeeded in getting together a considerable mass of curious and valuable nmaterial pour serrir. His last visit to his native country had researches of this nature for one of its objects ; and we are sure many per. ons connected with the charitable institutions of Dublin will recol- lect the persevering zeal with which he visited the haunts of poverty, as ~vell as the asylums for its relief, noting down everything which might prove afterwards service~ ble on that suggestive topic. With an upwelling of philanthropy so pure and perennh I as this, the preliminary investigations could have been only a delight to him. Other men might be forced to them as a revolting duty ; he chose the inquiry, with very dubious hopes of bettering himself by prosecuting it, because his heart was full of com- passion, and he thought he might do good. We repeat, ~vh~ t we can state from personal knowled~e, that the bent of Mr. Warburtons mind was latterly towards works of general utility ; and it is with satis- faction we learn, what we had not been aware of until the public papers announced it, that his projected visit to the New World was a mis, ion, in which the inter- ests of humanity were to have in him an advocate and champion. Into his private life we feel that, under present cir- cumstances, it would be indelicate, as well as out of place, to enter. Surrounded as he was with all the blessings which the domestic relations can bestow, beloved by his intimates, caressed by the gifted and the good, Eliot Warburton lived the centre of a radiat- ing circle of happiness. His personal qualities were of no common order. His society was eagerly sought after. With a fastidious lassitude of air, and an ap- parent disinclination to exertion, he possessed remark- able force of thought and fluency of diction ; and it was no uncommon thing to see him, when he had begun to relate passages from his experiences in foreign countries, or adventures in his own, the centre of a gradually increasing audience, amidst which he sat, improvisating a sort of romantic recitation, until he was completely carried away on the current of his own eloquence, and lost every sense of where he was or what he was doing, in the enthusiasm he had fanned up and saw reflected around him. This power was a peculiar gift ; and he loved to exercise it. In this form niany of his happiest effusions have been given utter- ance to; and everybody who has heard him at such inspired moments has felt regret that the brilliant bursts which so delighted him, should have been stamped upon no more retentive tablets than the ears of ordinary listeners. Of this amiable, refined, and gifted individual we are afraid to speak as warmly as our heart would dictate. Before us lie the few hasty linesbut not too hurried to be the channel of a parting kindness scrawled to us on the first day of this yearthe last day the writer was ever to pass in England. They are, perhaps, amongst the latest words he ever wrote. I am off, they run, for the West Indies to-mor- row. But I have accomplished your affair. 0, vanity of human purpose! Man proposesGod dis- poses. We were next to hear of him, standing on the deck of the burning vessel in the Atlantic, alone with the captain, after every other soul had disap- peared, surveyingwe feel convinced, with the cour- age of a lionthe awful two-fold death close before him, and which he had in all probability deliberately preferred to an early relinquishment of his compan- ions to their fate. It is a fine pictureone that shall ever hang framed with his image in our memory; helping us to believe that .Lycidas our sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he he bencath the watry floor, but that he hath mounted to a higher sphere- Through the dear mi~ht of Him that walked the waves. THE foreign journals announce two works of con- siderable interest as being in course of preparation for the pressthe Memoirs of General Cavaignac and a new work by the author of The Amber Witch. Cavaignac is stated by the .AIoniteur Parisien to be employing the leisure of his voluntary exile, in writ- ing his own memoirs. This may be one of the mere rumors which float idly about in an age of interrupted sequence and disturbed action ; but should it prove true, the public may hope for a curious and exciting narrative from the hero of June. Godfrey Cavaignac, his brother, was one of the wittiest and sternest of republican writers under Louis Philippeand his own avowed opinions were the cause of much suspicion to the government, though his brilliant exploits in Al- giers rendered it impossible to keep him down. Of course, however,, the chief interest of his memoirs would centre in the pages devoted to his share in events subsequent to 1848. The German papers say that Dr. Meinhold has left among his papers an un- finished manuscript, entitled ilagar and the Ref- ormation, which, they add, is now in an editors hands, and will be shortly given to the public. 27 28 From the Athenaum. Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli. Three vols. Bentley. No biography of a woman comparable to this in interest has reached us from the other side of the Atlantic. Yet, its faults of execution are count- lessand the opportunities afforded to those whose sense of the ridiculous is strong are very frequent. Mr. Channings share of the work is written in that intlated and entangled style unhappily becom- in~ generic in Americacompared with which the seci)[id-hand Johusonisms of Miss Seward and Madame dArblay are simple, readable English. The memorialists of Margaret Fuller, too, singly and collectively, have absolved themselves fruni continuous detail and intelligible explanation in narrating her lifethus investin~ the subject of their labors with a mystery which, however sub- lime tin) the initiated, will seem to the generality of readers tawdry, whimsical, and injurious to the cause which it was me it to m~ guify. fotwithsranding all these qualifying circum- stances, however, we repeat that these volumes will have no common ittierest for all who will ap- proach them with p~tience and charity. Not only do they contain a ctirious contribution to the history of taste and opinion in Americathey offer also a precious addition to the ~allery of those eccentric amid poetical persons whose incompleteness is as glarittg as their aspiratitin is loftys hose notoriety among a few bears no proportion to their influence on the manywho have hoped and dreamed, lived and died, without ever coming to an agreemetit with themselveswho have draped themselves, as it were, for intellectual monarchy without having ever settled, or even inquired, what manner of peo- ple they were to reign over or by what code of laws they were to govern. In her own sphere, Margaret Fuller appears to have produced an im- pression as strong as, iii her time and place, was produced by the gifted Jewess Rahel Levin, of Berhimi ;but, as in Rahels ease, the utteramices of her l}OWer, and persuasion, and passion, when pub- hislmed, seem crude, constrained, confused and in btmt a very limited degree to justify the social reputation and personal devotion commanded by the deceased. Margaret Fuller was horn at Cambridge-Port, Massachusetts, in 1810. TIer father was a lawyer and politician ;a tnan of inure energy, it may be inferred, titan discri nminat ionsince, early becoming aware of time remarkable capcity (if his little daughter, he not only educated her himself, as a boy rather than as a girl, but in place of feeding cratnomed her with learning, early and late, in season antI out of season. I3v this mistaken disci- l)line, Margarets health was impaired for life. She became nerv(mtis, and a somnambulist at night amid by day, offensively assuming and pedantic. Even during elm ildhmouxh she putt fmmrth liner pretetisions tini a stmperiorit.y imot inure opeumly asserted by her- self tItan awarded by liner contemporaries. Like Adonijab, tIme son of Ilanoith, when h~e ished to exalt. himself, this lomid, near-sighted, awkward, satirical Americati girl said to herself I will be queen ! anti, like the Jewish pretender, site seemus to have had small difficulty in fmniding fifty mcii to into htefhre her. In sintmne of the earliest pages of this book we find her corresponding in a tonic of the mtnst oracular sagacity, not excluding mammifestations (if real pruetry and eloquence, with mcmi aitd studentsdescribed as claiming and ac MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. quiring friendships on her own termsgiving her whole confidence to no one, yet winning from every nine his secretdevouring abstruise and graceful and philosophical knowledgeand using the same from hand to mouth, in the very monient of ac- quisitionas thonigh tn) devour and to digest were one amid the sanie thing. It is noticeable, however, as a phenomenon rare in the history inif eccentric female genius, that Margaret Fuller never stood alinmof frintni or kept at distance her own sex. On being sent to a girls school, The endured bitter suf- ferings, we are told, when the other girls muicked at her because of a whim that she took to wear rouge. After she left school, we fimud her fomidly corresponding with her governess on her pursuits, though they were nothuinug slighter than the readinugs of Madame de Stadl, Epictemums, Milton, Racine, Castilian ballads, Berni, Locke, and Rinussells tour in Germanythe last book welcome, she says, as containing inmtelligemmt and detailed aecoumits of the German universities, Viennese court, secret assuuciations, Plica Polonica, and ut/ncr interesting matters! SIte was always careful of liner dress and aI)pearaneeand by no means, as Mr. Greeleys nuites assure us, disposed to waive her rights to deferential entertainunent as a woman, even while she phblished herself as foremost among the eman- cipatimug sisterhood. In addition to the topics (if pini isuit al rearly imidicated, Margaret Fuller early attached herself no Germami transcetudentalismbe- came a deep lover nuf German literaturesat in judgment on Goethe, Selmiller, Jean Paul, Betmine, amid Guodeninudeand rhapsodized about Beethoven. She was a passionate student of music ;she did her utmost also to enuter into the poetry of the painters art, by the study of books, engravings, and such specimens as were accessible. In brief, otur heroine appears tu have acted up to the principle ammnoumneed arniong her confessliuns, when sIte says Very early I knew that the only object in life was to grow. Yet, all her inure soli.d acquirementsall her keenness of sarcasm and the shrewd insight into character which we are assured that sue h)inussessed all her comnmercing with noble hopes and lofty puirposes, comild not, it seems, save her from thuise tuyimmow with superstition which are properly the occupation of the silly and time sentinteuttal. Mr. Emerson gravely tells us that She had a taste for 0ems, cipher~, talismans omens, coincidences, and birthdays. She had a sne til love for the planet Jupiter, and a belief that the month of September was inauspicious to her She never forgot th t her naune, Margarib, signified a peaul When I first met with the nanne Leila, she saud I knew, from the very look and sound, it was mmne I knew that it meant nigbtni0ht, which b~un~s out stats, as sorrow brin0s out truths. Sortule e she valued. She tried surtes bib/ic , and her hits were me~ or~ ble. I think each new book which interested her, she was disposed to put to this test, and know if it had some- what personal to say to her. As h ppens to such persoums, these guesses were justified by tIme event. She chose carbuncle for her owini stone, nd when a dear friend was to give her a gem, this was the one selected. She valued what she had somewhere read, that carbuneles are male and female. The female casts out light, the iainale ha his within himself. Mine, she said, is the m~ he. Sutch were among the characteristics of this very singular girl and woman. Her singuilarinies, how- ever, played few fantastic tricks with her duties. On the sudden death of her father, she is described as takin~ a worthy part in counsel, in support, and 29 MEMOIRS~OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. in self-sacrifice for the sake of her family. Het After this, the letter ~vhich she wrote on receiving letters contain allusions to very poor servants, Miss Martineaus Travels in America will be and to a great deal of needlework,as well as owned to he uncommon in its tone comments on the perfect wisdom and merciless nature of Goethe,announcernents of her transla- tion of Tassoand hints of her resolution to ex- amine thoroughly the evidences of the Christian religion. Difficulties and duties became distinct the very night after my fathers death, and a solemn prayer was olibred, then, that I might combine ~vh~t is due to others with what is due to myself. Accordingly, Margaret Fuller steadily refosed to avail herself of any opportunity pressed on her to visit Europe, by way of com~)leting her educa- tion. She went out as a teacherpostponing to the certain emoluments thus derived that undivided attention to authorship, which might have enabled her to do justice to her acquirements and her poetical aspirations. So far as we know her writings, they are feverish, entangledbearing marks of indecision, haste, and inadequate utter- ancerather the sketches of one who felt that life was a conflict, and fretted under its restraints, than the measured and matured labors of the artist who feels that only through labor, and sincerity to his own convictions, can he fitly present his thoughts and imaginings to the public. If the above character be somewhat diffuse, the fault is in part that of Margaret Fullers biog- raphersin part that of the restless complexity of her nature. Her great conversational fascination in spite of such drawbacks as a loud nasal voice and an arrogant self-assertion, which were apt to drive strangers out of the roomis insisted on in almost every page of these volumes. In due course of time this brought her into American notoriety. She began not only to study character, but also to note it down with an unhesitating decision, as cu- rious as it is edifying. The following is one of her dogmatic sketches I went to hear Joseph John Gurney, one of the most distinguished and influential, it is said, of the English Quakers. He is a thickset, beetle-browed man, with a well-to-do-in-the-world air of pious sto- lidity. I was ~rievously disappointed ; for Quakerism has at times looked lovely to me, and I had expected at least a spiritual exposition of its doctrines from the brother of Mrs. Fry. But his manner was as wooden as his matter, and had no merit but that of distinct elocution. His sermon was a tissue of texts, ill selected, and worse patched together, in proof of the assertion that a belief in the Trinity is the one thing needful, and that reason, unless manacled by a creed, is the otue thing dangerous. His figures were paltry, his thoughts narrowed down, and his very sincerity made corrupt by spiritual pride. One could not but pity his notions, of the Holy Ghost, and his bat-like Lear of light. His Man-God seemed to be the keeper of a mad-house, rather than the informing Spirit of all spirits. After finishing his discourse, Mr. G. sang a prayer, in a tone of mingled shout and whine, and then requestfd his audience to sit awhile in devout meditation. For one, I passed the interval in praying for him, that tlte thick film of self-complacency might be removed from the eyes of his spirit, so that he might no more degrade religion. There was bravery, as well as bitterness, how- ever, in Margaret Fullers honesty. She formed a close friendship with Miss Martineau while that lady was in America, and expresses herself as having been much indebted to her sympathy. On its first appearance, the book was ureeted by a volley of coarse and outrageous abuse, and the nine days wonder was followed by a nine days hue-and-cry. It was garbled, misrepresented, scandalously ill treated. This was all of no consequence. The opinion of the majority you will find expressed in a late nutuber of the North American Review. I should think the article, though ungenerous, not more so than gre t part of the critiques upon your book. The minority may be divided into two classes the cue, consisting of those who knew you but slightly, either personally, or in your writings. These have now read your book ; and, seeing in it your hi~h ideal standard, genuine independence, noble tone of sentiment, vigor of mind and powers of picturesque description, they value your book very much, and mate you higher for it. The other comprises those who were previously aware of these high qualities, and who, seeing in a book to which they had looked for a lasting monument to your fame, a degree of pre- sumptuousness, irreverence, inaccuracy, hasty gener- alization, and ultraism on many points, which they did not expect, lament the haste in which you have written, and the injustice which you have conse- quently done to so important a task, and to your own powers of being and doing. To this class I belong. When harriet Martineau writes about America, I often cannot test that rashness and inaccuracy of which L hear so much, but I can feel that they exist. A want of soundness, of habits of patient investiga- tion, of completeness, of arraugment, are felt through- out the book; and, for all its fine descriptions of scenery, breadth of reasonin~, and generous daring, I cannot be happy in it, because it is not worthy of my friend, and I think a few months given to ripen it, to balance, compare, and mellow, would have made it so. * I do not like that your book should be an abolition hook. You might have borne your testimony as decidedly as you pleased ; but why leaven the whole hook with it? This subject haunts us on almost every page. It is a great subject, but your book had other purposes to fulfil. As an illustration of Mar~arct Fuller, the above passa~es ould be incomplete, were it not added that they were taken from her own journals, having been copied therein. She could not, it seems, be sincere without setting her sincerity in her own sight, and in the sight of those who might cotne after her, to admire at it. The dash of bravura which pervaded all our heroine~ s sayings and doings appears to have a natural homeand it might almost be added, a necessary occupation, in American society. Very curious will it seem to many English persons to read that, after a time, Margaret Fuller was en- couraged to turn her conversational reputation to account by organizing conversation classes for the ladies of Boston. On the 6th of November, 1839, we find that twenty-five of the most agreeable and intelligent ~vomen to be found iii Boston and in its neighborhood assembled at Miss Peabodys Rooms, to discuss all manner of high and recondite topics The reporter closes her account by saying Miss Fullers thoughts were much illustrated, and all was said with the most captivating address and grace, and with beautiful modesty. The position itt which she placed herself with respect to the rest, was entirely ladylike, and companionable. She told what she intended, the earnest purpose with which she came, and, with great tact, indicated the indiscretions that MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. might spoil the meeting. * The first days topic was, the genealogy of heaven and earth; then the Will (Jupiter) ; the Understanding (Mercury) ; the second days, the celestial inspiration of genius, perception, and transmission of divine law (Apollo) the terrene inspiration, the impassioned abandonment of genius (Bacchus). * * Under the head of Venus, in the fifth conversation, the story of Cupid and Psyche was told with fitting beauty, by Margaret; and many fine conjectural interpretations suggested from all parts of the room. The ninth conversation turned on the distinctive qualities of poetry, discrimi- nating it from the other fine arts. Rhythm and Imagery, it was agreed, were distinctive. An episode to dancing, which the conversation took, led Miss Fuller to give the thought that lies at the bottom of difti~rent dances. Of her lively description the fol- lowing recor(l is preserved : Gavottes, shawl dances, and all of that kind, are intended merely to exhibit the figure in as many attitudes as possible. They have no character, and say nothing, except Look how graceful I am! & c. Open as are such exhibitions to the comments of the scorneras substituting a strained, vague, and hectic enthusiasm for the honest. love which patient study brings, and as pretending to mete out by line and rule those emotions, fancies, and sympa- thies winch each man must generate, define, and feel for himselftheir place gives them a signifi- cance entitling them to a word of remark. They are amnng the ever-recurring signs of the Ameri- cans longing for the poetry of a past which must strike every one conversant with the American~ s objects of pursuit and manner of following them up. The craving of our Transatlantic friends for memorials and relicstheir impatient desire to steep themselves in Art when they come to Eu- rolie, as if strong will could conjure up the moods of mind which grow out of centuries of civilization and fruits of experiencemust he familiar to all who have mingled with the more accomplished class of American travellers. Unable to force Genius, whether in criticism or in creationyet yearning with the thirst to learn and the appetite to appreciatethey have recourse to all kinds of em- pirical culture and solace ;not, we cordially believe, out of a vain desire to escape from due labor and preparation, so much as from a determi- nation to feel, or fancy, for themselves and in their own life-time, the pleasures and sensations which can never be taken by force. Too self-conscious to Plant the slow olive for the race unborn too impatient to await the slow progress of imitellec- tual developmenttheir hurried enthusiasmtheir grotesque lion-worshiptheir resolution to mine by the mere mechanical force of will into the depths of Poetry and Arthave a strange and pathetic earnestness which should make the most fastidious tolerant of their superficiality and indulgent towards their affectation. The real motive principle of the willingness of the Boston ladies to be lectured about Bacehus and his Pards, and to, sit and be instructed concerning the fundamental idea of the Polka aiid the inner meaning of the vclse ~ Deux Temps, however absurd it may seem, is yet deserving of sympathyand, wherever that can be given, of aid. Before the conversational classes were under- taken, Margaret Fuller had made herself a certain reputation as an essayist and a translator ;the most important work published by her in the latter character being her version of Eckermanns Con- versations with Goetheof which, it will be recollected, Mr. Oxenford largely availed himself in his more recent publication. A few years of Boston life, spent in talking, teaching,, writing, and assisting her family, were fomThd more than enough by one whose spirit was never at rest; and, in 1844, Marc,aret removed to New York to assist Mr. Horace Greeley in his transcendental journal, the New York Tribune. As we advance with her in her career, we find symptoms of her mind clearing itself. Her letters and journals be- come more and inure simple, truthful, and graphic: as the following brief notice of her habitation with the Greeleys will illustrate This place is to me entirely charming ; it is so completely in the country, arid all around is so bold and free. It is two miles or more from the thickly settled parts of New York, but omnibuses and cars give me constant access to the city, and, while I can readily see what and whom I will, I can command time and retirement. Stopping on the H: arlem road, you enter a lane nearly a quarter of a mile long, and going by a small brook and pond that locks in the place, and ascending a slightly rising ground, get sight of the house, which, old-fashioned, and of mellow tint, fronts on a flower-garden filled with shrubs, large vines, and trim box borders. On both sides of the house are beautiful trees, standing fair, full-grown, and clear. Passing through a wide hall, you come out upon a piazza, stretching the whole length of the house, where one can walk ia all weathers ; and thence by a step or two, on a lawn, with picturesque masses of rooks, shrubs, and trees overlooking the East River. Gravel paths lead, by several turns, down the steep bank to the waters edge, where round the rocky point a small bay curves in which boats are lying. And, owing to the currents, and the set of the tide, the sails glide sidelong, seem- ing to greet the house as they sweep by. We also find evidences of the improved power which belongs to increased self-knowledge in the fragments from her jourtmals written on he-r arrival in Europe. Take, as an example, the following pen-and-ink sketch Of the people I saw in London, you will wish me to speak first of the Carlyles. Mr. C. came to see me at once, and appointed an evening to be passed at their house. That first time I was delighted with him. lie was in a very sweet humorfull of wit and pathos, without being overbearing or oppressive. I was quite carried away with the rich flow of his discourse ; and the hearty, noble earnestness of his personal being brought back the charm which once was upon his writing, before I wearied of it. I admired his Scotch, his way of singing his great full sentences, so that each one was like the stanza of a narrative ballad. He let me talk, now and then, enough to free my lungs and change my position, so that I did not get tired. That evening, he talked of the present state of things in England, giving light, witty sketches of the men of the day, fanatics and others, and some sweet, homely stories he told of things he had known of the Scotch peasantry. Of you he spoke with hearty kind- ness ; and he told, with beautiful feeling, a story of some poor farmer, or artisan, in the country, who on Sundays lays aside the cark and care of that dirty English world, and sits readiiig the Essays, and look- ing upon the sea. I left him that night, intending to go out very often to their house. I assure you there never was anything so witty as Carlyles description of . It was enough to kill one with laugh- ing. I, on my side, contributed a story to his fund of anecdote on this subject, and it was fully appre- ciated. Carlyle is worth a thousand of you for that; he is not ashamed to laugh, when he is amused, but 30 MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. goes on in a cordial human fashion. The second time, Mr. C. had a dinner-party, at which was a witty, French, flippant sort of man, author of a history of Philosophy, and now writing a life of Goethe, a task for which he must be as unfit as irreligion and spark- ling shallowness can make him. But he told stories admirably, and was allowed sometimes to interrupt Carlyle a little, of which one was glad, for that night he was in his more acrid mood ; and, though much more brilliant than on the former evening, grew wearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost everything he said. For a couple of hours he was talking about poetry, and the whole harangue was one eloquent proclamation of the defects in his own mind. Tennyson wrote in verse because the schoolmasters had taught him that it was great to do so, and has thus, unfortunately, been turned from the true path for a man. Burns had, in like manner, been turned from his vocation. Shakspeare had not had the good Sense to see that it would have been better to write straight on in prose ;and such nonsense, which, though amusing enough at first, he ran to death after a while. The most amusing part is always when he comes back to some refrain, as in the French Revolu- tion of the sea-green. In this instance, it was Petrarch and Laura, the last word pronounced with his ineffable sarcasm of drawl. Although he said this over fifty times, I could not ever help laughing when Laura would come; Carlyle running his chin out, when he spoke it, and his eyes glancing till they looked like the eyes and beak of a bird of prey. Poor Laura! Lucky for her that her poet had already got her safely canonized beyond the reach of this Teufels- drockh vulture. The worst of hearing Carlyle is that you cannot interrupt him. I understand the habit andpower of haranguing have increased very much upon him, so that you are a perfect prisoner when he has once got hold of you. To interrupt him is a physical impossibility. If you get a chance to remon- strate for a moment, he raises his voice and bears you down. Such a host as is here described must have been found weighty to manage and difficult of enjoyment by one ~vho in her own circles had been accustomed to lead and apportion the dialogue of the hour herself enjoying the formidable reput.e of a tre- mendous converser. But Margaret Fullers ad- miration of her idols seems almost to have risen to the height of her admiration of herself. In Paris, her first desire was to see and be seen by the Large-brained woman and large-hearted man, as Mrs. Browning has called Madame Dudevant. [The letter as copied into the Athennum does not con- tain the parts which we have placed in brackets. Perhaps they are not in the English edition. We have printed it from the American edition, as it may he thought to throw an important light, not merely on the opinions of the writer, but also on some of the social systems of many liv- ing and influential writers, who have followed Fourier and so, of course only in Cheery, have left the ordinary family system.Liaing Age.] TO E. H. Paris, Jan. 18, 1847, and Naples, March 17, 1847. [You wished to hear of George Sand, or, as they say in Paris, Madame Sand. I find that all we had heard of her was true in the outline; I had supposed it might be exaggerated. She had every reason to leave her husbanda stupid, brutal man, who in- sulted and neglected her. He afterwards gave up their child to her for a sum of money. But the love for which she left him lasted not well, and she has had a series of lovers, and I am told has on~ now, I with whom she lives on the footing of combined means, independent friendship! But she takes rank in soci- ety like a man, for the weight of her thoughts, and has just given her daughter in marriage. Her son is a grown-up young man, an artist. Many women visit her, and esteem it an honor. Even an American here, and with the feelings of our country on such subjects, Mrs. , thinks of her with high esteem. She has broken with La Mennais, of whom she was once a dis- ciple. I observed to Dr. Francois, who is an intimate of hers, and loves and admires her, that it did not seem a good sign that she breaks with her friends. He said it was not so with her early friends ; that she has chosen to buy a chateau in the region where she p ssed her childhood, and that the people there love and have always loved her dearly. She is now at the chateau, and, I begin to fear, will not conic to town before I go. Since I came, I have read two charming stories re- cently written by her. Another longer one she has just sold to La Presse for fifteen thousand francs. She does not receive nearly as much for her writings as Baizac, Damns, or Sue. She has a much greater in- fluence than they, but a less circulation. She stays at the chateau, because the poor people there were suffering so much, and she could help them. She has subscribed twenty thousand francs for their relief, in the scarcity of the winter. It is a great deal to earn by ones pen ; a novel of several volumes sold for only fifteen thousand francs, as I mentioned before. ~ ~ ~J At last, however, she came; and I went to see her at her house, Place dOrleans. I found it a handsome modern residence. She had not answered my letter, written about a week before, and I felt a little anxious lest she should not receive me; for she is too much the mark of impertinent curiosity, as well as too busy, to be easily accessible to strangers. I am by no means timid, but I have suffered, for the first time in France, some of the torments of mauvaise honte, enough to see what they must be to many. It is the custom to go and call on those to whom you bring letters, and push yourself upon their notice; thus you must go quite ignorant whether they are disposed to be cordial. My name is always murdered by the foreign servants who announce use. I speak very bad French; only lately have I had sufficient command of it to infuse some of my natural spirit in my discourse. This has been a great trial to me, who am eloquent and free in my own tongue, to be forced to feel my thoughts struggling in vain for utterance. The servant who admitted mewas in the picturesque costume of a peasant, and, as Madame Sand after- ward toldme, her god-daughter whom she had brought from her province. She announced me as Madame Salere, and returned into the ante-room to tell me, Madame says she does not know you. I began to think I was doomed to a rebuff, among the crowd who deserve it. However, to m~ ke assurance sure, I said, Ask if she has not received a letter from me. As I spoke, Madame S. opened the door, and stood look- ing at me an instant. Our eyes met. I never shall forget her look at that moment. The doorway made a frame for her figure ; she is large, but well-formed. She was dressed in a robe of dark violet silk, with a black mantle on her shoulders, her beautiful hair dressed with the greatest taste, her whole appearance and attitude, in its simple and ladylike dignity, pre- senting an almost ludicrous contrast to the vulgar caricature idea of George Sand. Her face is a very little like the portraits, but much finer; the upper part of the forehead and eyes are beautiful, the lower, strong and masculine, expressive of a hardy tempera. meat and strong passions, but not in the least coarse; the complexion olive, and the air of the whole head Spanish; (as, indeed, she was born at Madrid, and is only on one side of French blood) All these de- tails I saw at a glance; but what fixed my attentior~ 31 32 was the expression of goodness, nobleness, and power, that pervaded the wholethe truly human heart and nature that shone in the eyes. As our eyes met, she said, Cest vous, and held out her hand. I took it, and went into her little study ; we sat down a moment, then I said, Ii me fait de Idea de roes voir, and I am sure I said it with my whole heart, for it made me very happy to see such a woman, so large and so developed a character, and everything that is good in it so really good. I loved, shall always love her. She looked, away, and said, .~h! roes ne avez ecrit cue lettre charoeante. This was all the pre- liminary of our talk, which then went on as if we had always known one another. She told me, before I went away, that she was going that very day to write to me; that when the servant announced me she did not recognize the name, but aftcr a minute it struck her that it might be La d me Americ~ me, as the forcigners very commonly call me, for they find my name hard to remember. She was very much pressed for time, as she was then pre~iaring copy for the printer, and, having just returned, there were many applications to see her, but she wanted me to stay then, saying, It is better to throw things aside, and seize the present moment. I staid a good part of the day, and was very glad fterwards, for I did not see her a~ am uninterrupted. Another day I was there, and saw her in her circle. her dau~hter and another lady were present, and a number of.gentlemen. Her posi- tion there was of an intellectual woman and a good friendthe same as my own in the circle of my ac- quaintance as distinguished from my intimates. Her daughter is just about to be married, lit is said, there is no congeniality between her and her mother, but for her son she seems to have much love, and he loves and admires her extremely. I understand he has a good and free character, without conspicuous talent. Her way of talking is just like her writinglively, picturesque, with an undertone of deep feeling, and the same skill in striking the nail on the head every now and then, with a blow. [We did not talk at all of personal or private mat- ters. I saw, as one sees in her writings, the want of an independent, interior life, but I did not feel it as a fault, there is so much in her of her kind. II heartily enjoyed the sense of so rich, so prolific, so ardent a genius. I liked the woman in her, too, very much; I never liked a wom~tn better. For the rest I do not care to write about it much, for I cannot, in the room and time I have to spend, express my thoughts as I would, but as near as I can express the sum total, it is this. S and others who admire her, are an~tious to make a fancy-picture of her, and represent her as a Helena in the Seven Chords of the Lyre ; all whose mistakes are the fault of the present state of society. But to me the truth seems to he this. She has that purity in her soul, for she knows well how to love and prize its beauty ; but she herself is quite another sort of person. She needs no defence, but only to he understood, for she has bravely acted out her nature, and always with good intentions. She mi~ht have loved one man permanently, if she could have found one contemporary with her who could interest and command her throughout her range; but there was hardly a possibility of that, for such a person. Thus she has naturally changed the objects of her affection, and several times. Also~ there may have been something of the Bacehante in her life, and of the love of night and storm, and the free raptures amid which roamed on the mountain-tops the follow- ers of Cybele the great goddess, the great motheo~ But she was never coarse, never gross, and I am sure her generous heart has not failed to draw some rich drops from every kind of wine-press. When she has done with an intimacy, she likes to break it off sud- denly, and this has happened often, both with men MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. and women. Many calumnies upon her are traceaLe to this cause.] I forgot to mention that, while talking, she does smoke all the time her little cigarette. This is now a common practice among ladies abroad, but I believe originated with her. [For the rest, she holds her place in the literary and social world of France like a man, and seems full of energy and courage in it. I suppose she has suffered much, but she has also enjoyed and done much, and her expression is one of calmness and happiness. I was sorry to see her exploitant her talent so care- lessly. She does too much, and this cannot last for- ever but Teverino and the Mare au Diable, which she has lately published, are as original, as masterly in truth, and as free in invention as any- thing she has done. After I saw Chopin, not with her, although he lives with her, and has for the last twelve years. I went to see him in his room with one of his friends, lie is always ill, and as frail as a snow-drop, but an ex- quisite genius. He played to me, and I like his talk- ing scarcely less. Madame S. loved Liszt before him she has titus been inthuate with the two opposite sides of the musical world. Mickiewicz says, Chopin talks with spirit, and gives us the Ariel view of the universe. Liszt is the eloquent tribune to the world of men, a little vulgar and showy certainly, but I like the tribune best. It is said here, that Madame S. has long had only a friendship for Chopin, who, perhaps, on his side prefers to be a lover, and a jeal- ous lover ; but she does not leave him, because he needs her care so much, when sick and suffering. About all this, I do not know ; you cannot know much about anything in France, except when you see with your two eyes. Lying is ingrained in la grande nation, as they so plainly show no less in literature than life.] The touch of complacent self-reference in the above passages is pleasantly characteristic. Neither England nor France, howeverthough both seem to have at once awakened and more or less to have ballasted this wild, passionate, heaving mindsatisfied the American woman of genius. Her longing was for Italyas though (to adopt the tone of her own fancies) she had known that the completion of her destiny awaited her there and to Italy she went from FranceThe story of her sojourn there, of her singular and secret mar- riage, of her position and part during the days of the Triumvirate in Romeof her home return, ana the fearful catastrophe which closed her voyageis so full of picturesque interest that we must return to this biography for further extract. Meanwhile, we cannot let the present notice go forth without stating that it very imperfectly represents the interest which we have found in these volumes which must commend them to all such as delight in studying character. [Second Notice.l IN order to study the American woman of genius in her right attitude, and under the true color which the vicissitudes of Southern adventure east upon her clunuacters and affections, the bystander must he reminded that from her childhood upwards Margaret Fuller had always fancied herself to he something distinvuished for tact and brilliancy, a creature born to reigna genius that had not yet found its sphere. The following passage from her Journals is only one among hundreds having a like significance A noble career is yet before me, if I can be unim- peded by cares. I have given almost all my young MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. energies to personal relations ; but, at present, I feel inclined to impel the general stream of thought. Let my nearest friends also wish that I should now take share in more public life. Margaret Fullers writings, as might be inferred from our remarks [Athen. No. 999] when some of the choicest portions were collected and published, bore, in their incompleteness, many signs of the impediment lamented abovemany echoes of pantings on the thorns of life, to use Shelleys eloquent metaphor. If the artist was so ill con- tented with her own productions, it seems, too, as if the womans heart had been little better satisfied by a religious and energetic performance of her home duties. Long before Margaret Fuller under- took her European voyage, to feast on the society, literary sympathy, and art for which she pined, a cry like the following was registered among her breathings y~rith the intellect I always have, always shall, overcome; but that is not the half of the work. The life, the life! 0, my God! shall the life never be sweet? It is no wonder that Margaret Fuller found Eng- lish domestic intercourse too restrained, and French esprit too insincere, to content cravings so warm, so vague, and so vast as hers. There is an age of body, a mood of mind, a phase of cultivationwe have again and again had occasion to observeto which Italy offers precisely that mixture of climate and of company, of rest and of excitement, of dolce far ?U ite and of noble recollections and fervent ad- miration, which are to be found nowhere else. Later, perchance, the pilgrim may come to feel its beauty and emotion insufficient to satisfy a mind longing for truth, manhood, and self-sacrifice but this sense of insufficiency (if so it be) will be credited on no hearsay evidence. For awhile Margaret Fuller travelled in com pany with an American family, and found herself at home and at ease in Italy. Of this more than one passage from her Journals give ample proof. .Milan, .LIug. 10, 1847.Since writing you from Florence, (says she, addressing Mr. Emerson,) I have passed the mountains; two full, rich days at Bologna; one at Ravenna; more than a fortnight at Venice, in- toxicated with the place, and with Venetian art, only to be really felt and known in its birth-place. I have passed some hours at Viceuza, seeing mainly the Palladian structures; a day at Veronaa week had been better ; seen NL atna, with great delight; sev- eral days in Lago di Garditruly happy days there; then to l3rescia, where I saw the Titians, the exquisite Raphael, the Scavi, and the Brescian Hills. I could charm yos by pictures, had I time. To-day, for the first time, I have seen Manzoni. Manzoni has spirit- ual efficacy in his looks ; his eyes glow still with delicate tenderness, as when he first saw Lucia, or felt theni flit at the image of Father Christoforo. His manners are very engaging, frank, expansive; every word betokens the habitual elevation of his thoughts and (what you care for so much) he says distinct good things; but you must not expect me to note them down. He lives in the house of his fathers, in the simplest manner. He has taken the liberty to marry a new wife for his own pleasure and com- panionship, and the people around him do not like it, because she does not, to their fancy, make a good pendant to him., But I liked her very well, and saw why he married her. They asked me to return often, if I pleased, and I mean to go once or twice, for Mauzoni seems to like to talk with me. ccccxi. LiVING AGE. voa. xxxiii. 3 At Rome began the romance of Margaret Fuller~e life :which we must unthread and arrange as con- cisely as we can from the unmethodical records and rhapsodies before us She went to hear vespers, the evening of Holy Thursday, soon after her first coming to Rome, in the spring of 1847, at St. Peters. She proposed to her companions that some place in the church should be designated, where, after the services, they should meetshe being inclined, as was her custom always in St. Peters, to wander alone among the different chapels. When, at length, she saw that the crowd was dispersing, she returned to the place assigned, but could not find her party. in some perplexity, she walked about, with her glass carefully examining each group. Presently, a young man of gentlemanly ad-. dress came up to her, and begged, if she were seeking any one, that he might be permitted to assist her; and together they continued the search through all parts of the church. At last, it became evident, beyond a doubt, that her party could no longer be there, and, as it was then quite late, the crowd all gone, they went out into the piazza to find a carriage, in which she might go home. In the piazza, in front of St. Peters generally may be found misny carriages; but, owing to the delay they had made, there were then none, and Margaret was compelled to walk with her stranger friend, the long distance between the Vatican and the Corso. At this time, she had little command of the language for conversational purposes, and their words were few, though enough to create in each a desire for further knowledge and acquaintance. At her door, they parted, and Margaret, finding her friends already at home, related the adventure. This chance meeting at vesper service in St. Peters pre.. pared the way for many interviews; and it was be- fore Margarets departure for Venice, Milan, and Como, that Ossoli first offered her his hand and was refused. Our meeting, writes Margaret, in another page was singularfateful, I may say. Very soon he offered me his hand through lifb, but I never dreamed I should take it I loved him, and felt very unhappy. to leave him; but the connexion seemed so every wa~r unfit, I did not hesitate a moment. He, however,, thought I should return to him, as I did. The spell of Italy was too strong upon tie wan-~ derer. When her American friends began to turn homewards, she thought of Rome; and, breaking away from their company, returned alone to the Eternal City, there to pass the winter (so she wrote~ home) quite by herself. When in London, she~ had made acquaintance with Signor Mazzini adopted his hopes and aspirations regarding Italian politicsand, it appears, accepted confidences and commissions from him. At an early stage of her acquaintance with the Marquis Ossoli, she dis- covered in him signs of the true liberal faithwhich wanted only encouraging and confirming. His family are noble some of its members at that time held occupations of trust and honor in th~ papal government and household. Thus, not merely the vows of love, but also the sympathies of patriotism betwixt the Italian gentleman and the American lady, must needs be nourished and exchanged in secret. Such a position, however, seems to have satisfied every aspiration and occupied every faculty of our passionate pilgrim. Yet, it may throw light upon other heart-histories besides Margaret Fullera~ if it be told that, except his sweetness of nature and singleness of purpose, the husband of her choic~~ seems to have had few qualities calculated to recem 33 MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. on for the favorable change which should enable them to declare it. Their child was born ; and, for his sake, in order to defend him, as Margaret said, from the stings of poverty, they were patient waiters for the restored law of the land. Margaret felt that she would, at any cost to herself, gladly secure for her child a condition above want ; and, although it was & severe trial, she resolved to wait, and hope, and keep her secret. Accordingly, secret for a long time from both families was the marriage kept such a course in- evitably involving difficulties of separation which the events of the time did not make easier. What can be much more beautiful than the following revelation, which continues the narrative l~ z~iend him to one so experienced, so exacting, and so variously gifted as she was. The Marquis Ossoli is thus described by his wife, when, after long con- eealinent, she wrote to her mother the tidings of her marriage He is not in any respect such a person as peopPe in general would expect to find with me. He had no in- structor except an old priest, who entirely neglected his education ; and of all that is contained in books he is absolutely ignorant, and lie has no enthusiasm of character. On the other hand, he has excellent practical sense; has been a judicious observer of all that passed before his eyes ; has a nice sense of duty, which, in its unfailing, minute activity, may put most enthusiasts to shame; a very sweet temper, and great native refinement. I-us love for me has been unswerving and most tender. I have never suffered My baby saw mountains when he first looked for- a pain that he could relieve. His devotion, wlierrI am ward into the world. Rietinot only an old classic ill, is to be compared only with yours. His delicacy town of Italy, but one founded by what are now called in trifles, his sweet domestic graces, remind me of Aboriginesis a hive of very ancient dwellings with - - In him I have found a home, and one that in- red-brown roofs, a citadel, and several towers. It is terf~res with no -tie. Amid many ills and cares, we in a plain, twelve miles in diameter one way, not b~ve had much joy together, in the sympathy with much less the other, nnd entirely encircled with - natural beautywith our childwith all that is mountains of the noblest form. Casinos and hermit- - innocent and sweet.. I do not know whether he will ages gleam here and there on their lower slopes. always love me so well, for I am the elder, and the dif- This plain is almost the richest in Italy, and full of -ference will become, in a few years, more perceptible vineyards. Rieti is near the foot of the hills on the than now. But life is so uncertain, and it is so one side, and the rapid Velino makes almost the cir- necessary to take good- things with - their limitations, cult of its walls ~on its way to Terni. I had my that I have not thought it worth while to calculate too apartment shut out from the family, on the banks of curiously, this river, and saw the mountains, as I lay on my With homely and unintehlectual graces like the restless couch. There was a piazza, too, or, as they above (supposing them to exist in all the fulness call it here, a loggia, which hung over the river, where I walked most of the night, for I could not sleep - wherewith they were credited- by affection) had the at all in those months. In the wild autumn storms, exigent, enthusiastic, over-cultivated won~an learned the stream became a roaring torrent, constantly lit up to content herself! For their sake, she-was will- by lightning flashes, and the sound of its rush was ing to embrace uncertain fortunes, perplexityill very sublime. I see it yet, as it swept away on its report, possiblywithout any chance of gaining dark green current the heaps of burning straw which ~future distinction or competence through her bus- the children let down from the bridge. Opposite my ~bands character or position much more real than window was a vineyard, whose white and purple the mirage. Under the -following circumstances clusters were my food for three months. It was pretty ~was the knot tied -to watch the vintagethe asses and wagons loaded with, this wealth of amber and rubiesthe naked They were married [writes a friend to whom the boys, singing in the trees on which the vines are ,secret was confided) in December [1847), soon after trained, as they cut the grapesthe nut-brown maids as I think, though I am not positivethe death of and matrons, - in their red corsets and white head- the old Marquis Ossoli. The estate he had left was clothes, recelying them below, while the babies and undivided, and the two brothers, attached to the little children were Papal household, were to be the executors. This pat- - frolicking in the grass. rimony was not large, but, when fairly divided, would Late in the ~utun~n of 1848, the cloud of political bring to each a little propertyan income sufficient, storm which had -been long gathering stooped low with economy, for life in Rome. Every one knows, over Rome~ The following is from a letter of the that law is subject to ecclesiastical infiueiice in Rome, 16th of November: an.d that marriage with a Protestant would be destructive to all prospects of favorable administration. The house looks out on the Piazza Barberini, and I And besides being of another religious faith, there see both that palace and the Popes. The scene to- wns, in this case, the additional crime of having mar- day has been one of terrible interest. The poor, rieda liberalone who had publicly interested her- weak Pope has fallen more and mo,~e under the self in radical views. Taking the two facts together, dominion of the cardinals, till at last alk truth was there was good reason to suppose, that, if the mar- hidden from his eyes. He had suffered the minister, riage were known, Ossoli must be a beggar, and a Rossi, to go on, tightening the reins, and, because banished man, under the then existing government; the people preserved a sullen silence, he thought. they while, by waiting a little, there was a chancea fair would bear it. Yesterday, the Chamber of Deputies, ~one tooof an honorable post under the new govern- illegally prorogued, was opened anew. Rossi, after ment, whose formation every one was anticipating, two or three. most unpopular measures, had the im- Leaving Rome, too, at that time, was deserting the prudence to call the troops of the line to defend him, field wherein they might hope to work much good, and instead of the National Guard. On the 14th, the where they felt that they were needed. Ossolis Pope had invested him with the privileges of a Roman brothers had long before begun to look jealously upon citizen; (he had renounced his country when an ex- him. Knowing his acquaimitance with Margaret, they ile, and returned to it as ambassador of Louis feared the influence she might exert over his mind in Philippe.) This position he enjoyed but one day. favor of liberal sentiments, and had not hesitated to Yesterday, as he descended from his carriage, to enter threaten him with the Papal displeasure. ~ * Ossohi the Chamber, the crowd howled and hissed; then laid the feeling, that, while his own sister and family pushed him, and, as he turned his head in cease- could ~not be informed of his marriage, no others quence, a sure hand stabbed him in the back. He ~sEouldknow of it; and from day to day they hoped said no word, but died almost instantly in the arms MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. of a cardinal. The act was undoubtedly the result of the combination of many, from the dexterity with which it was accomplished, and the silence which en- sued. Those who had not abetted beforehand seemed entirely to approve when done. The troops of the line, on whom he had relied, remaining at their posts, and looked coolly on. In the evening, they walked the streets with the people, singing, Happy the hand which rids the world of a tyrant ! Had Rossi lived to enter the Chamber, he would have seen the most terrible and imposing mark of denunciation known in the history of nationsthe whole house, without a single exception, seated on the benches of opposition. The news of his death was received by the deputies with the same cold silence as by the people. For me, I never thought to have heard of a violent death with satisfaction, but this act affected me as one of terrible justice. To-day, all the troops and the people united and went to the Quirinal to demand a change of measures. They found the Swiss Guard drawn out, and the Pope dared not show him- self. They attempted to force the door of his palace, to enter his presence, and the guard fired. I saw a man borne by wounded. The drum beat to call out the National Guard. The carriage of Prince Barberini has returned with its frightened inmates and livened retinue, and they have suddenly barred up the court- yard gate. Antonio, seeing it, observes, Thank Heaven, we are poor, we have nothing to fear The events which followed this terrible deed all the more terrible from the stony complacency with which it was accredited by by-standersare sketched in Margaret Fullers journals and letters. On the 9th of March, 1849, we find her writing Mazzini entered.by night, on foot, to avoid demon- strations, ml doubt, and enjoy the 4uiet of his own thoughts at so great a moment. The people went under his windows the next night and called him out to speak; but I did not know~boutit. Last night, I heard a ring; then somebody speak my name~ the voice struck upon me at once. He looha more divine than ever, after all his new, strange sufferings. He asked after all of you. He stayed two hows; and we talked, though rapidly, of everything~ He hopes to come often, but the crisis is tremendous, and all will come on him ; since, if any one can save Italy from her foes, inward and outward, it will be he. But he is very doubtful whether this be possible; the foes are too many, too strong, too subtle. During the siege of Rome by the French, Mar- garet Fuller was occupied as a hospital nurse turn to pieces by conflicting feelings and duties anxiety for her husbandseparation from their baby passionate enthusiasm for the poor wounded men whom she tended I cannot tell you what I endured in leaving Rome; abandoning the wounded soldiers ; knowing that there is no provision made for them, when they rise from the beds where they have been thrown by a noble courage, where they have suffered with a noble patience. Some of the poorer men, who rise bereft even of the right armone hi~ving lost both the right arm and the right legI could have provided for with a small sum. Could I have solil my hair, or blood from my arm, I would have done it. Had any of the rich Americans remained in Rome, tl~ey would have given it to me; they helped nobly at ~rst, in the service of the lwspital,s~ when there was f~r less need; but they had all gone. * ~ You si~y you are glad I have had this great opportunity for carrying out my principles. Would ~F*ere so! I found my- self inferior in courage and fort~t~de to the occasion, I knew not how to bear tl~e havoc and angi~ish ~poi- dent to the struggle for these principles. By these links we are led on to our last notice of this most painful of modern struggles I did not ee Mazzini, the last two weekt of the republic. When the French entered, he walked about the streets to see how the people bore themselves, and then went to the house of a friend. In the upper chamber of a poor house, with his life-long friends~ the ModenasI found him. Modena, who abandoned not only what other men held dearhome, fortune, peacebut also endured, without the power of using the prime of his great artist-talent, a ten-years~ eiile in a foreign land ; his wife every way worthy of hint such a woman as I am not. Mazzini had suffered millions more than I could; he had borne his fearful responsibility; he had let his dearest friends perish; he had passed all these nights without sleep; in two short months he had grown old; all the vital Juices seemed exhausted; his eyes were all blood-shot; his skin orange; flesh he had none; his hair was mixed with white: his hand was painful to the touch; but he had never flinched, never quailed ;~ had protested in the last hour against surrender; sweet and calm, but full of a more fiery purpose than ever; in him I revered the hero, and owned myself not of that mould. You say truly, I shall come home humbler. God grant it may be entirely humble! In future, while more than ever deeply penetrated with princi- ples, and the need of the martyr spirit to sustain them, I will ever own that there are few worthy, ansi that I am one of the least. Ere we have done with Rome, we must turn from politics to private life, and cite one more in- stanceof Margaret Fullers large-heartedness,which, her position considered, is affecting in its munifi~. cence At pne time, in Rome, while she lived upon the simplest, slenderest fare, spending only some ten or twelve cents a-day for her dinner, she lent, unsolicited, her last fifty dollars to an artist, who was thcii in need. Every friend bears testimony to the extraordiaa~ ry love and sympathy which Madame Ossoli inspired among the Italians, and to the influence which she more than once exercised in those junctures of fierce and fiendish passion at which the power to arrest amid to calm is so rare and so precious. After this, it is distressing to read of one so actively helpful and unselfish being so cruelly outraged and be- trayed. Her baby at Rieti was neglected by the nurses to whom he was confide4. His position was made a pretext for mercenary ex~ortiot1 His nurse, (says she,) lovely and innocent as she appeared, had betrayed him, for lack of a few scudi. He was worn to a skeleton; his sweet, childish grace all gone! Everything I had endured seemed light to what I felt when I saw him too weak to smile, or lift his wasted little hand. Now, by incessant care, we have brought him backwho knows if that be a deed of love ?into this hard world once more. * ~ -I shall never again, (she writes,) be pertbctly, be re. ligiously generous, so terribly do I need Ibr myself the love I have given to other sufferers, From this agony, however, Madame Ossoll was delivered by the childs recovery. On the en try of the French into Home, and the reinstalment of the papal government in more than its olden decrepi- tude sod timidity, all hopes of prosperity in Italy for the two liberals, were over. The Ossulis natu- rally turned their thoughts towar4s Margarets conotrywhere her husbsmnd was sure to he cordied. ly welcor~ed.; and where she had n~w more than her former chance of assuring independemsee by the S5 MEMOIRS OF MARGARET FULLER OSSOLI. exercise of her many and mature gifts. Accord- ingly, after a breathing-time of repose and pleasant intercouse among congenial friends at Florence, they set sail for America from Leghbrn in a mer- ehant shipthe ill-fated Elizabeth; not, we are assured, without omens and prognostics enough to disturb one ready from childhood upwards to be- lieve in auguries and dreams, and whom suffering and maternity had of late made desponding and afraid: Beware of the sea, had been a singular prophecy, given to Ossoli when a boy, by a fortune-teller, and this was the first ship he had ever set his foot on. A A I am absurdly fearful, she writes, and various omens have combined to give me a dark feeling. I am become indeed a miserable coward, for the sake of Angelino. I fear heat and cold, fear the voyage, fear biting poverty. I hope I shall not be forced to be as brave for him, as I have been for myself, and that if I succeed to rear him, he will be neither a weak nor a bad man. But I love him too much! In case of mishap, I shall perish with my husband and my child, and we may be transferred to some happier state. Everything went amiss on this home voyage. The captain sickened and died of confluent small- pox in its most malignant form. The disease then seized Angelino, the child, whose life was despaired of for awhile. He recovered, however; and at last the coast of America was reached. On the very eve of the passengers going on shore, a heavy gale arose. The Elizabeth struck on Fire-Island Beach At the first jar, the passengers, knowing but too well its fatal import, sprang from their berths. Then same the cry of Cut away, followed by the crash of falling timbers, and the thunder of the seas, as they broke across the deck. In a moment more the cabin skylight was dashed in pieces by the breakers, and the spray, pouring down like a cataract, put out the lights, while the cabin door was wrenched from its fastenings, and the waves swept in and out. One scream, one only, was heard from Margarets state- room; and Sumner and Mrs. Hasty, meeting in the cabin, clasped hands, with these few but touching words We must die. Let us die calmly then. I hope so, Mrs. Hasty. It was in the gray dusk, and amid the awful tumult, that the companions in misfortune met. The side of the cabin to the leeward had already settled under water ; and furniture, trunks, and fragments of the skylight were floating to and fro ; while the inclined position of the floor made it difficult to stand ; and every sea as it broke over the bulwarks, splashed in through the open roof. The windward cabin-walls, however, still yielded partial shelter, and against it, seated side by side, half leaning backwards, with feet braced upon the long table, they awaited what next should come. At first, Nino, alarmed at the uproar, the darkness, and the rushing water, while shivering with the wet, cried passionately ; but soon his mother, wrapping him in such garments as were at hand, and folding him to her bosom, sang him to sleep. Celeste too was in an agony of terror, till Ossoli, with soothing words and a long and fervent prayer, restored her to self-control s~nd trust. Then calmly they rested, side by side, ~tvchanging kindly partings and sending messages to friend~ if any should survive to be their bearer. We must pass over the harrowing details of the last night and subsequent morning; the projects the deliberations and the rescue of one or two of the little company. Enough to say, that no plan or proposition to save her would induce Margaret to be parted from her husband or her child. The rest will be quickly told It was now past three oclock, and as, with the rising tide, the gale swelled once more to its former violence, the remnants of the barque fast yielded to the resistless waves. The cabin went by the board, the after-parts broke up, and the stern settled out of sight. Soon, too, the forecastle was filled with water, and the helpless little band were driven to the deck, where they clustered round the forema t. Presently, even this frail support was loosened from the hull, and rose and fell with every billow. It was plain to all that the final moment drew swiftly nigh. Of the four seamen who still stood by the passengers, three were as efficient as any among the crew of the Eliza- beth. These were the st.eward, carpenter, and cook. The fourth was an old sailor, who, broken down by hardship and sickness, was going home to die. These men were once again persuading Margaret, Ossoli, and Celeste, to try the planks, which they held ready in the lee of the ship, and the steward, by whom Nino was so much beloved, had just taken the little fellow in his arms, with the pledge that he would save him or die, when a sea strtrck the forecastle, and. the foremast fell, carrying with it the deck and all upon it. The steward and Angelino were washed upon the beach, both dead, though warm, some twenty minutes after. The cook a~nd carpenter were thrown far upon the foremast, and saved themselves by swimming. Celeste and Ossoli caught for a moment by the rigging, but the nextj w ye swallowed them up. Margaret sank at once. When last seen she had been seated at the foot of ~be foremast, still clad in her white night-dress, with her hair fallen loose upon her shoulders. It was overthat twelve hours communion, face to face, with Death ! It was over! and the prayer was granted, that Ossoli, Angelino, and I, may go together, and that the anguish may be brief ! Thus sadly ~ndeA~. the pilgrimage of one Whose life from her 6radle to her grave was passed in fever, yearni~g, and storm It would setm (to fall in with Madame Ossolis own fancifal tone con- cerning her fortunes) ~~if it had beep written by destiny, that the fame for which she had so pas- sionately thirsted shou~ld.l~e denied her after death, as in life. With her, was lost in the Elizabeth the manuscript of a history of the recent Italian revolu- tion on which she had bestowed ~iuch time and labor.It may mitigate the regret of some, how- ever, if it be added, that we have been told by good authorities, that it was Madame Ossolis intention to remodel and reconsider her work, in consequence of modifications of her views regarding the past machinery and the future issue of the Italian move- inent. Tnn~Nzss OF A SOAP-IAUISBLE.A soap-bubble as it floats in the light of the sun reflects to the eye an endless variety of the most gorgeous tints of color. Newton showed, tha~ to each of these tints corresponds a certain thickness of the substance forming the bubble; in fact, he showed, in general, that all transparent substances, when reduced to a certain degree of tenuity, would reflect these colors. Near the highest point of the bubble, just before it bursts, observed is always a spot which reflects no color and appears black. Newton showed that the thickness of the bubble at this black point was the 2,500,000th part of an inch! Now, as the bubble at this point possesses the properties of water as essentially as does the Atlantic Ocean, it follows that the ultimate molecules forming water must have less dimensions than this thiekness.Lardners Handbook. 36 MY TRAVELLING COMPANION. 37 MY TRAVELLING COMPANION. Mv picture was a failure. Partial friends had guaranteed its success; huf the Hanging Commit- tee and the press are not composed of ones partial friends. The Hanging Committee thrust me into the darkest corner of the octagon-room, and the press ignored my existenceexcepting in one in- stance, when my critic dismissed me in a quarter of a line as a presumptuous dauber. I was stunned with the blow, for I had counted so se- curely on the 200 at which my grand historical painting was dog-cheapnot to speak of the death- less fame which it was to create for methat I felt like a mere wreck when my hopes were flung to the ground, and the untasted cup dashed from my lips. I took to my hed, and was seriously ill. The doctor bled me till I fainted, and then said, that lie had saved me from a hrain-fever. That might be, but he very nearly threw me into a con- sumption, only that I had a deep chest and a good digestion. Pneumonic expansion and active chyle saved me from an early tomb, yet I was too un- happy to be grateful. But why did my picture fail Surely it pos- sessed all the elements of success! It was grandly historical in subject, original in treatment, pure in coloring; what, then, was wanting This old warriors head, of true Saxon type, had all the majesty of Michael Angelo; that young figure, all the radiant grace of Correggio; no Rembrandt showed more severe dignity than yon burnt umber monk in the corner; and Titian never excelled the loveliness of this cobalt virgin in the foreground. Why did it not succeed? The subject, toothe Finding of the Body of Harold by Torch-light was sacred to all English hearts; and being conceived in an entirely new and original manner, it was redeemed from the charge of triteness and wearisomeness. The composition was pyramidal, the apex being a torch borne aloft for the high light, and the base showing some very novel ef- fects of herbage and armor. But it failed. All my skill, all ray hope, my ceaseless endeavor, my burning visions, allall had failed ; and I was only a poor, half-starved painter, in Great Howland Street, whose landlady was daily abating in her respect, and the butcher daily abating in his punc- tuality ; whose garments were getting threadbare, and his dinners hypothetical, and whose day- dreams of fame and fortune had faded into the dull- gray of penury and disappointment. I was broken- hearted, ill, hungry; so I accepted an invitation from a friend, a rich manufacturer in Birmingham, to go down to his house for the Christmas holidays. He had a pleasant place in the midst of some iron- works, the blazing chimneys of which, he assured me, would afford me some exquisite studies of licrht effects. By mistake I went by the expr~ss train, and so was thrown into the society of a lady whose posi- tion would have rendered any acquaintance with her impossible, excepting under such chance-con- ditions as the present; and whose bistory, as I learned it afterwards, led me to reflect nt~teh on the difference b~jween the reality and ~Jie seeming of life. She moved my envy. Yesbase, mean, low, unartistic, degrading as is this passion, I felt it rise up like a snake in my breast when I saw that fee- ble woman. She ~vas splendidly dressedwrap- ped in furs of the most costly kind, trailing behind; From Chambers Journal. r her velvets and lace worth a countess dowry. She was attended by obsequious menials; surrounded by luxuries; her compartment of the carriage was a perfect palace in all the accessories which it was possible to collect in so small a space; and it seemed as though Cleopatras cup would have been no impracticable draught for her. She gave me more fully the impression of luxury than any person 1 had ever met with before; and I thought I had reason when I envied her. She was lifted into the carriage carefully; care- fully swathed in her splendid furs and lustrous vel- vets; and placed gently, like a wounded bird, in her warm nest of down. But she moved languidly, and fretfully thrust aside her servants busy hands, indifferent to her comforts, and annoyed by her very blessings. I looked into her face: it was a strange face, which had once been beautiful ; but ill-health, and care, and grief, had marked it now with deep lines, and colored it with unnatural tints. Tears had washed out the roses from her cheeks, and set large purple rings about her eyes; the mouth was hard and pinched, but the eyelids swollen; while the crossed wrinkles on her brow told the same tale of grief grown petulant, and of, pain grown soured, as the thin lip, quivering and querulous, and the nervous hand, never still and never strong. The train-bell rang, the whistle sounded, the ladys servitors stood bareheaded and curtseying to the ground, and the rapid rush of the iron giant bore off the high-born dame and the starveling painter in strange companionship. Unquiet and un- restingnow shifting her placenow letting down the glass for the cold air to blow full upon her withered facethen drawing it up, and chafing her hands and feet by the warm-water apparatus concealed in her cliauffe-pied, while shivering as if in an ague-fitsighing deeplylost in thought wildly looking out and around for distractionshe soon made me ask iioyself whether my envy of her was as true as deep sympathy and pity would have been. But her wealthher wealth ! I thought. True she may suffer, but how gloriously she is solaced! She may weep, but the angels of social life wipe off her tears with perfumed linen, gold embroidered; she may grieve, but her grief makes her joys so much the more blissful. Ab! she is to be envied after all !envied, while I, a very beggar, might well scorn my place now ! Something of this might have been in my face, as I offered my sick companion some small atten- tionI forget whatgathering up one of her lnx~ urious trifles, or arranging her cushions. She seemed almost to read my thoughts as her eyes rested on my melancholy face; and saying ab~ ruptly: I fear you are unhappy, young man ? she settled herself in her place like a person pre- pared, to listen to a pleasant tale. I am unfortunate, madam, I answered. Unfortunate ? she said impatiently. What~ with youth and health, can you call yourself unfor- tunate I When the whole world lies untried be- fore you, and you still live in the golden atmos- phere of hope, can you pamper yourself with senti- mental sorrows? Fie upon you !fie upon you! What are your sorrows compared with mine ? - I am ignorant of yours, madam, I said re- spectfully; but I know my own; and, knowing them, I can speak of their weight and bitterness. By your very position, y~u cannot undergo the ~same kind of distress as that overwhelming me at 38 MY TRAVELLING COMPANION. this moment: you may have evils in your path of affection could save her: every effort was made. life, but they cannot equal mine. the best advice procuredthe latest panacea Can anything equal the evils of ruined health adopted; but to no effect. Her life was prolonged, and a desolated hearth? she cried, still in the certainly; but this simply means, that she was same impatient manner. Can the worst griefs three years in dying, instead of three months. of wayward youth equal the bitterness of that cup She was a gloriously lovely creature, like a fair which you drink at such a time of life as forbids young saint for beauty and purityquite an ideal all hope of after-assuagement? Can the first dis- thing with her golden hair and large blue eyes! appointment of a strong heart rank with the tern- She was my only girlmy youngest, my darling, Ne- desolation of a wrecked old age? You think, my best treasure! My first real sorrownow because you see about me the evidences of wealth, fifteen years agowas when I saw her laid, on her that I must be happy. Young man, I tell you twenty-first birthday, in the English burial-ground truly, I would gladly give up every farthing of my at Madeira. It is on the gravestone, that she died princely fortune, and be reduced to the extreme of of consumption: would that it had been added want, to bring back from the grave the dear ones and her mother of grief! From the day of her lying there, or pour into my veins one drop of death, my happiness left me! the bounding blood of health and energy which Here the poor lady paused, and buried her face used to make life a long play-hour of delight, in her hands. rrhe first sorrow was evidently also Once, no child in the fields, no bird in the sky, the keenest; and I felt my own eyelids moist as was more blessed than I; and what am I now ? I watched this outpouring of the mothers anguish. a sickly, lonely old woman, whose nerves are shat- After all, here was grief beyond the power of tered and wh,se heart is broken without hope or wealth to assuage: here was sorrow deeper than happiness on the earth! Even d ~ath has passed me any mere worldly disappointment. by in forgetfulness and scorn ! I had two sons, she went on to say after a Her voice betrayed the truth of her emotion. short time only two. They were fine young Still, with accent of bitterness and complaint, men, gifted and handsome. In fact, all my chil- rather than of simple sorrow, it was the voice of one dren were allowed to be very models of beauty. fighting against her fate, more than of one suffering One entered the army, the other the navy. The acutely ~nd in despair: it was petulant rather than eldest went with his regiment to the Cape, where melancholy; angry rather than grieving; show- he married a woman of low familyan infamous ing that her trials had hardened, not softened her creature of no blood; though she was decently heart. conducted for a low-born thing as she was. She Listen to me, she then said, laying her hand was well-spoken of by those who knew her; but on my arm, and perhaps my history may recon- what could she be with a butcher for a grandfather! cile you to the childish depression, from what cause However, my pour infatuated son loved her to the soever it may be, under which you are laboring, last. She was very pretty, I have heardyoung You are young and strong, and can bear any and timid; hut being of such fearfully low origin, amount of pain as yet: wait until you reach my of course she could not be recognized by my hus- age, and then you will know the true meaning of band or myself! We forbade my son all inter- thu word despair! I am rich, as you may see, course with us, unless he would separate himself she continued, pointing to her surroundings in from her; but the poor boy was perfectly mad, truth, so rich that I take no account either of my and he preferred this low-born wife to his father income or my expenditure. I have never known life and mother. They had a little baby, who was under any other form; I have never known whiat sent over to me when the wife diedfor, thank it was to be 4enied the gratification of one desire God ! she did die in a few years time. My son which wealth could purchase, or obliged to calculate was restored to our love, and he received our for- the cost of a single undertaking. I can scarcely giveness; but we never saw 1Pm again. He took realize the idea of poverty. I see that all people a fever of the country, and was a corpse in a few do not live in the same style as myself, but I cannot hours. My second boy was in the navya fine understand that it is from inability: it always high-spirited fellow, who seem ed to set all the ac- seems to me to be from their own disinelfijation. I cidents of life at defiance. I could not believe in tell your I cannot fully realize the idea of poverty; any harm corning to him. He was so strong, so and you think this must make me happy, per- healthy, so beautiful, so bright; he might have haps ? she added sharply, looking full in my been immortal, for all the elements of decay that face. showed themselves in him. Yet this glorious I should be happy, madam, if I were rich, I young hero was drownedwrecked off a coral- ieplied. Suffering now from the strain of pov- reef, and flung like a weed on the waters. He lust erty, it is no marvel if I place an undue value on his own life in trying to save that of a common sailor plenty. a piece of pure gold bartered for the foulest clay! Yet see what it does for me ! continued my Two years after this my husband died of typhus companion. Does it give me back my husband, fever, and I had a nervous attack, from which I my brave boys, my beautiful girl? Does it give have never recovered. And now, what do you say rest to this weary heart, or relief to this aching to this history of mine? For fifteen years I have head? Does it soothe my mind or heal my body? never been free from sorrow. No sooner did one - No! It but oppresses me, like a heavy robe grow so familiar to me, that I ceased to tremble at thrown around weakened limbs: it is even an ad- its hideousness, than another, still more terrible, ditional misfortune, for if I were poor, I should be came to overwhelm me in fresh misery. For fif- obliged to think of other things beside myself and teen years, my heart has never known an hours my woes; and the very mental exertion necessary peace; and to the end of my life, I shall be a to sustain my position would lighten my miseries, desolate, miserable, broken-hearted Woman. Can I have seen my daughter wasting year by year and you understand, now, the valuelessness of my day by day, under the w~irm sky of the south riches, and how desolate my splendid house must under the warm care of love! Neither climate nor seem to me? They have been given me for no use- MY TRAVELLING COMPANION. ful purpose here or hereafter; they encumber me, and do no good to others. Who is to have them when I die? Hospitals and schools I hate the medical profession, and I am against the education of the poor. I think it the great evil of the day, and I would not leave a penny of mine to such a radical wrong. What is to become of my wealth ? Your grandson, I interrupted hastily; the child of the officer. The old womans face gradually softened. Ah! he is a lovely hoy, she said; hut I dont love himno, I dont, she repeated vehemently. If I set my heart on him, he will die or turn out ill; take to the low ways of his wretched mother, or die some horrible death. I steel my heart against him, and shut him out from my calculations of the future, He is a sweet boy; interesting, affectionate, lovely; hut I will not allow myself to love him, and I dont allow him to love me. But you ought to see him. His hair is like my own daughterslong, glossy, golden hair; and his eyes are large and blue, and t.he lashes curl on his cheek like heavy fringes. He is too pale and too thin ; he looks sadly delicate ; hut his wretched mother was a delicate little creature, and he has doubtless inherited a world of disease and poor blood from her. I wish he was here though, for you to see; hut I keep him at school, for when he is much with me, I feel myself heginniug to he interested in him; and I do not wish to love him I do not wish to remember him at all! With that delicate frame and nervous temperament, he must die; and why should I prepare fresh sorrow for myself, by taking him into my heart, only to have him plucked out again by death ~ All this was skid with the most passionate vehe- mence of manner, as if she were defending herself against some unjust charge. I said something in the ~vay of remonstrance. Gently and respectfully, but firmly, I spoke of the necessity for each soul to spiritualize its a~~irations, and to raise itself from the trammels of earth; and, in speaking thus to her, I felt my own hurden lighten off my heart, and I acknowledged that I had been hoth foolish and sin- ful in allowing my first disappointment to shadow all the sunlight of my existence. I am not natural- ly of a desponding disposition, and nothing hut a blow as severe as the non-success of my Finding the Body of Harold hy Torch-light could have affected me to the extent of mental prostration as that under which I was now laboring. But this was very hard to hear! My companion listened to me with a kind of blank surprise, evidently unac- eustomed to the honesty of truth ; but she bore my remarks patiently, and when I had ended, she even thanked me for my advice. And now, tell me the cause of your melancholy face? she asked, aswe were nearing Birmingham. Your story cannot he very long, and I shall have just enough time to hear it. I smiled at her authoritative tone, and said quietly, I am an artist, madam, and I had counted much on the success of my first historicat p:~inting. It has failed, and I am both penniless and infamous. I am the presumptuous dauber of the critics despised by my creditorsemphatically a failure throu~zhout. Pshaw ! cried the lady impatiently; and what is that for a grief? a days disappointment which a days labor can repair! To me, your troubles seem of no more worth than a childs iears when he has broken his newest toy! Here is Bir mingham, and I must bid you farewell. Perhaps you ~vill open the door for me? Good-morning; you have made my journey pleasant, and relieved my ennui. I shall be happy to see you in town, and to help you forward in your career. And with these words, said in a strange, indif- ferent, matter-of-fact tone, as of one accustomed to all the polite offers of good society, which mean nothing tangible, she was lifted from the carriage by a train of servants, and borne off the platform. I looked at the card which she placed in my hand, and read the address of Mrs. Arden, Belgrave Square. I found my friend wa~ting for me; and in a few moments was seated before a blazing fire in a mag- nificent drawing-room surrounded with every com- fort that hospitality could offer or luxury invent. here, at least, is happiness, I thought, as I saw the family assemble in the drawing-room before dinner. Here are beauty, youth, wealth, position all that makes life valuable. What concealed skeleton can there be in this house to frighten away one grace of-existence? Nonenone ! They must be happy; and oh! what a contrast to that poor lady I met with to-day; and what a painful contrast to myself And all my former melancholy returned like a heavy cloud upon my brow; and I felt that 1 stood like some sad ghost in a fairy-land of beauty, so utterly out of place was my gloom in the midst of all this gayety and splendor. One daughter attracted my attention more than the rest. She was the eldest, a beautiful girl of about twenty-three, or she might have been even a few years older. Her face was quite of the Spanish styledark, expressive, and tender ; and her man- ners were the softest and most bewitching I had ever seen. She was peculiarly attractive to an artist, from the exceeding beauty of feature, as well as from the depth of expression, which distinguished her. I secretly sketched her portrait on my thumb- nail, and in my own mind I determined to make her the model for my next grand attempt at historical composition the Return of Columbus. She was to be the Spanish queen; and I thought of my- self as Ferdinand; for I was not unlike a Spaniard in appearance, and I was almost as brown. I remained with my friend a fortnight, studying the midnight effects of the iron foundries, and cul- tivating the acquaintance of Julia. In these two congenial occupations the time passed like lightning, and I woke as from a pleasant dream, to the knowl- edge of the fact, that my visit ~vas expected to be brought to a close. I had beemi asked, I remembered, for a week, and I had doubled my furlough. I hinted, at breakfast, that I was afraid I must leave my kind friends to-morrow, and a general regret was expressed, but no one asked me to stay longer;: so the die was unhappily cast. Julia was melancholy. I could not but observe it; and I confess that the observation caused me - more pleasure than pain. Could it be sorrow at my departure? We had been daily, almost hourly,. companions for fourteen days, and the surmise was not unreasonable. She had always shown me par- - ticular kindness, and she could u~t hut have seen my marked preference for her. My heart beat wildly as I gazed on her pale cheek and drooping eyelid ; for though she had been always still and gentle, I hail never seencertainly I had never - noticedsuch evident traces of sorrow, as I saw in her face to-day. Oh, if it were for me, how I ~vould bless each pang which pained that beautiful heart! ~-how I would cherish the tears that fell, as if they had been priceless diamonds from the mine !how I would joy in her grief and live in her despair! It might be that out of evil would come good, and from the deep desolation of my unsold Body might arise the heavenly blessedness of such love as this! I was intoxicated with my hopes ; and was on the point of making a public idiot of my- self, but happily some slight remnant of common sense was left me. However, impatient to learn my fate, I drew Julia aside and, placing myself at her feet, while she was enthroned on a luxurious ottoman, I pretended that I must conclude the series of lectures on art, and the best methods of coloring, on which I had been employed with her ever since my visit. You seem unhappy to-day, Miss Reay, I said abruptly, with my voice trembling like a girls. She raised her large eyes languidly. Unhappy? no, I am never unhappy, she said quietly. Her voice never sounded so silvery sweet, so pure and harmonious. It fell like music on the air. I have, then, been too much blinded by excess of beauty to have been able to see correctly, I answered. To me you have appeared always calm, but never sad; but to-day there is a palpable weight of sorrow on you, which a child might read. It is in your voice, and on your eyelids, and round your lips; it is on you like the moss on the young rosebeautifying while veiling the dazzling glory within. Ah! you speak far too poetically for me, said Julia, smiling. It you will come down to my level for a little while, and will talk to me ration- ally, I will tell you my history. I will tell it you as a lesson for yourself, which I think will do you good. The cold chill that went to my soul! Her his- tory ! It was no diary of facts that I wanted to hear, but only a register of feelings in which I should find myself the only point whereto the index was set. History! what events deserving that name could have troubled the smooth waters of her life? I was silent, for I was disturbed; but Julia did not notice either my embarrassment or my silence, and began, in her low, soft voice, to open one of the saddest chapters of life which I had ever heard. You do not know that I am going into a con- vent? she said; then, without waiting for an answer, she continued This is the last month of my worldly life. In four weeks, I shall have put on the white robe of the novitiate, and in due course I trust to be dead forever to this earthly life. A heavy, thick, choking sensation in my throat, and a burning pain within my eyeballs, warned me to keep silence. My voice would have betrayed me. When I was seventeen, continued Julia, I was engaged to my cousin. We had been brought up together from childhood, and we loved each other perfectly. You must not think, because I speak so calmly now, that I have not suffered in the past. It is only by the grace of resignation and of religion, that I have been brought to my present condition of spiritual peace. I am now five-and-twenty next week I shall be six-and-twenty; that is just nine years since I was first engaged to Laurence. He ~vas not rich enough, and indeed he was far too young, to marry, for he was only a year older than myself; and if he had had the largest possible amount of income, we could certainly not have married for three years. My father never cordially MY TRAVELLING COMPANION. approved of the engagement, though he did not oppose it. Laurence was taken partner into a large concern here, and a heavy weight of business was immediately laid on him. Youthful as he was, he was made the sole and almost irresponsible agent in a house which counted its capital by millions, and through which gold flowed like water. For some time, he went on wellto a marvel well. He ~vas punctual, vigilant, careful; but the responsi- bility was too much for the poor boy ; the praises he received, the flattery and obsequiousness which, for the first time, were lavished on the friendless youth, the wealth at his command, all turned his head. For a long time, we heard vague rumors of irregular conduct; but as lie was always the same good, affectionate, respectful, happy Laurence when with us, even my father, ~vho is so strict, and somewhat suspicious, turned a deaf ear to them. I was the earliest to notice a slight change, first in his face, and then in his manners. At last the rumors ceased to be vague, and became definite. Business neglected ; fatal habits visible even in the early day; the frightful use of horrible words which once he would have trembled to use; the nights passed at the gaming-table, and the days spent in the society of the worst men on the turf all these accusations were brought to my father by credible witnesses; and, alas ! they were too true to be refuted. My fatherHeaven and the holy saints bless his gray head !kept them from me as long as he could. He forgave him again and again, and used every means that love and reason could employ to bring him back into the way of right; but he could do nothing against the force of such fatal habits as those to which my poor Laurence had now become wedded. With every good inten- tion, and with much strong love for me burning sadly amid the wreck of his virtuds, he yet would not refrain; the evil one had overcome him; he was his prey here and hereafter. 0 nonot here- after ! she added, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, if prayer, if fasting, patient vigil, inces- sant striving, may procure him pardonnot forever his prey ! Our engagement was broken off; and this step, necessary as it was, completed his ruin. He died Here a strong shudder shook her from head to foot, and I half rose, in alarm. The next instant she was calm. Now you know my history, continued she. It is a tragedy of real life, which you will do well, young painter, to compare with your o~vn ! With a kindly pressure of the hand, and a gentle smileoh so sweet, so pure, and heavenly! Julia Reay left me; while I sat perfectly awed that is the only word I can usewith the revela- tion which she had made both of her history and of her own grand soul. Come with me to my study, said Mr. Reay, entering the room; I have a world to talk to you about. You go to-morrow, you say. I am sorry for it; but I must therefore settle my business with you in good time to-day. I followed him mechanically, for I was undergo- ing a niental castigation which rather disturbed nie. Indeed, like a young foolas eager in self-reproach as in self-glorificationI was so occupied in in- wardly calling myself hard names, that even when my host gave me a commission for my new picture, The Return of Columbus, at two hundred and fifty pounds, together with an order to paint himself, Mrs. Reay, and half-a-dozen of their children, I confess it with shame, that I received the news like a leaden block, and felt neither surprise nor joy MY TRAVELLING COMPANION. not though these few words chased me from the gates of the Fleet, whither I was fast hastening, and secured me both position and daily bread. The words of that beautiful girl were still ringing in my ears, mixed up with the bitterest self-accusa- tions; and these together shut out all other sound, however pleasant. But that was always my way. I went back to London, humbled and yet strengthened, having learned more of human nature and the value of events, in one short fortnight, than I had ever dreamed of before. The first lessons of youth generally come in hard shape. I had sense enough to feel that I had learned mine gently, and that I had cause to be thankful for the mildness of the teaching. From a boy, I became a man, judg- ing more accurately of humanity than a years ordinary experience would have enabled me to do. And the moral which I drew was this ; that, under our most terrible afflictions, we may always gain some spiritual good, if we suffer them to be soften- ing an(l purifying rather than hardening influences over us. And, also, that vhile we are suffering the most acutely, we may be sure that others are suffer- ing still more acutely; and if we would but sym- pathize with them iriore than with ourselveslive out of our own selves, and in the wide world around uswe would soon be healed while striving to heal others. Of this I am convinced; the secret of life, and of all its gond, is in love ; and while we pre- serve this, we can never fail of comfort. The sweet waters will always gush out over the sandiest desert of our lives ~vbile we can love; but without itnay, not the merest weed of comfurtor of virtue would grow under the feet of angels. In this was the distinction between Mrs. Arden and Julia Reay. The one had hardened her heart under her trials, and shut it up in itself; ~he other had opened hers to the purest love of man and Jove of God; and the result was to be seen in the despair of the one and in the holy peace of the other. Full of these thoughts, I sought out my poor lady, determined to do her real benefit if I could. She received me very kindly, for I had taken care to provide myself with a sufficient introduction, so as to set all doubts of my social position at rest; and I knew how far this would go with her. We soon became fast friends. She seemed to rest on me much for sympathy and comfort, and soon grew to regard me with a sort of motherly fondness that of itself brightened her life. I paid her all the attention which a devoted son might payhumored her whims, soothed her pains; but insensibly 1 led her ~41 mind out from itselffirst in kindness to me, and then in love to her grandson. I asked for him just before the midsummer holi- days, and with great difficulty obtained an invitation for him to spend them with her. She resisted my entreaties stoutly, but at last was obliged to yield not to me, nor to my powers of persuasion, but to the truth of which I was then the advocate. The child came, and I was there also to receive him, and to enforce by my presencewhich I saw without vanity had great influencea fitting recep- tion. He was a pensive, clever, interesting little fellow; sensitive and affectionate, timid, gifted with wonderful powers, and of great beauty. There was a shy look in his eyes which made me sure that he inherited much of his loveliness from his mother; and when we were great friends, he showed me a small portrait of poor mamma, and I saw at once the most striking likeness between the two. No human heart could withstand that boy, certainly not my poor friends. She yielded, fighting desperately against me and him, and all the powers of love, which were subduing her, but yielding while she fought ; and in a short time the child had taken his proper place in her affections, which he kept to the end of her life. And she, that desolate mother, even she, with her seared soul and petrified heart, ~vas brought to the knowledge of peace by the glorious power of love. Prosperous, famous, happy, blessed in home and hearth, this has become my fundamental creed of life, the basis on which all good, whether of art or of morality, is rested ; of art especially ; for only by a tender, reverent spirit can the true meaning of his vocation be made known to the artist.. All the rest is mere imitation of form, not insight into essence. And ~vhiile I feel that I can. live out of myself, and love othersthe ~vhole world of man more than myself, I know that I possess the secret of happiness; ay, though tny powers were suddenly blasted as by lightning, my wife and children laid in the cold grave, and my happy home desolated for- ever. For I would go out into the thronged streets, and gather up the sorrows of others, to relieve them; and I would go out under the quiet sky, and look tip to the Fathers throne ; and 1 would pluck peace, as green herbs, from active benevolence and con- templative adoration. Yes; love can save from the sterility of selfishness, and from the death of despair; but love alone. No other talisman has the power; pride, self-sustainment, coldness, pleasure, nothingnothingbut that divine word of life which is lifes soul! TuE successors of the Caliph Omar are fore etting that famous aphorism of their race which described nil literature not found in the Koran as superfluous. Of late years, the Padishak of the Moslem world has founded schoolsimported types and pressesarid set up newspapers in the dominions over which his sway extends. What is still more marvellous, is the fact that he is now beginning to acknowledge himself in soi o sort amenable to the organs of public opinion in Europe. We have been both amused and inter- ested by an official article in the Journal de Constan- tinople on the statementssaid to be falseof cer- tain German papers in reference to the dispute between the Turks and the Montenegrins, and the conduct of a new Omar Pasha who is now illustrating the military virtues of his people on the shores of the Adriatic. Not many years ago the Sultan would not recognize the Christian powersand now the Turks see the wisdom of correcting the mistakes of obscure German writers. How rapid the strides of civiliza t~on on the Bosphorus! Prince Schwarzenberg slights the ministers of Turkey and Americaas, in Aus- trian opinion, the two liberal nations at his ban- quet on the downfall of Lord Palmerston. The populace of London, Birmingham, and Manchester entwine the colors of Turkey with those of EngL ad and the United States, flow strange a companion- ship, and how suggestive! Who will now be able to say that Constantinople is behind Paris or Vienna in real civilization? In the first, the ruling power admits the legitimate right of public opinion, while in France it is coerced, and in Austria conteInned ~fhenceunr. 49 From the Examiner. The Poetical and Dramatic Works of Sir Edward Buiwer Lytton, Bart. Vol. 1. Narrative Poems, The New Timon, & c. Chapman and Hall. The Poems and Ballads of & liiller. Translated by Sir EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, Bart. Second Edition. Blackwood and Sons. IT will be a welcome intimation to a very large ~ ublic of readers that a collected edition of Sir d ward Bul wer Lyttons poetical and dramatic writings has been commenced, of which the first very handsome volume, with a well-engraved portrait and vignette title, is now before us. It will include a selection of his youthful and all his more mature poems, some not before printed, some entirely re-written from the more imperfect productions of earlier years, all subjected to careful revision. It is to contain also the comedies and plays, and will range when completed with the library edition of that brilliant series of novels and romances with which the same writer has enriched our language. To those who are curious in tracing a most fruitful, active, and original mind through its earlier to its more mature development, this col- lection of Sir E. B. Lyttons poems presents the same kind of interest as may be found in his collected novels and tales. No man has been a more resolute, a more unwearied student. Per- haps no popular writer has had greater temptations to encourage, in the growth and application of his genius, what certainly no man has more steadily chastened and subdued. As the brilliance of success never gave him overweening confidence, neither has occasional non-success damped his energy or betrayed his just confidence in the power which has at last won general and earnest recognition. If it was na weel bobbit, we 11 bobbit again. We have the results in the collected edition now begun, and in the claim it establishes, no longer disputable, to the title of dramatist and poet. Turning to see the changes which revision~~ has made in some of the poems with which we were familiar, we have been struck by the improve- ment in the early and very beautiful one of Milton. The idea of this fragment (for it is a succession of scenes rather than a connected romance) is to depict the great poet in the three periods of his life, beginning from that youthful one of Italian travel with which tradition has coupled the anecdote of the Italian lady attracted by his beauty when asleep, who dropped Guarinis epigram by his side, and making of this incident a thread to connect the youth, manhood, and age of Milton. Let the reader familiar with the original poem observe the simpler and more beautiful struc- ture of one of its most admired passages in this editionthat in which the poet is exhibited at the close of his life, as Marvel nobly designated him, blind but bold. The old man felt the fresh air oer him blowing, Waving thin locks from musing temples pale; Felt the quick sun through cloud and azure going, And the light dance of leaves upon the gale, In that mysterious symbol-change of earth Which looks like death, though but restoring birth. Seasons return ; for him shall not return Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. Whatever garb the mighty mother wore, Nature to him was changeless evermore.~ List, not a sigh !though fallea on evil days, POETIC AND DRAMATIC WORKS OF BULWER. With darkness compassed roundthose sightless eyes Need not the sun ; nightly he sees the rays, Nightly he walks the bowers, of Paradise, High, pale, still, voiceless, motionless, alone, Death-like in calm as monumental stone, Lifting his looks into the farthest skies, lie sat: And as when some tempestuous day Dies in the hush of the majestic eve, So on his browwhere grief has passed away, Reigns that dread stillness grief alone can leave. There are also some fine lines allusive to the occasional excesses that are charged against Mil- tons associates in the struggle for English freedom. Whateer their errors, lightly those condemn, Who, had they felt not, fought not, glowed and erred, Had left us what their fathers left to them Either the thraldom of the passiv~ herd Stalled for the shambles at their masters word, Or the dread overleap of walls that close, And spears that bristle :And the last they chose. Calm from the hilts their children gaze to-day, And breathe the airs to which they forced the way. Glancing through the lighter narrative poems we find in many new touches an easier hand, ampler and richer illustrations, and the frequent infusion of a deeper sentiment. Much of this is apparent, for example in those masterly lines The world looked on, and construed, as it still Interprets all it knows notinto ill. Mans home is sacred, flattering proverbs say Yes, if you give the home to mens survey, But if that sanctum be obscured or screened, In every shadow doubt suggests a fiend So churchyards seen beneath a daylight sky Are holy to the clown who saunters by But vex his vision by the glimmering light, And straight the holiness expires in fright lie hears a goblin in the whispering grass, And cries, Heaven save us !at the parsons ass! Was ever lord so newly wed, so cold ? Poor thin~ forsaken ere a year be told! Doubtless some wantonwhom we know not, true, But those proud sinners ar~ so wary too Oh ! for the good old daysone never heard Of men so shocking under George the Third So ran the gossip. With the gossip caine The brood it hatchedconsolers to the dame. TIme soft and wily wooers, who begin Through sliding pity, the smooth ways to sin. My lord is absent at the great debate, Go, soothe his ladys unprotected state Go, gallantgo, and wish the cruel heaven To thee such virtue, now so wronged, had given In the same poem (now called Constance,~~ formerly the Ill-omened Marriage) we find a character more fully drawn out, of which some leading points are subtly expressed in the subjoined admirable verses. In trnth, young Harcourt had the gifts that please Wit without effort, beauty worn with ease The courtiers mien to veil the misers soul, And that self-love which brings such self-control. High born, but poor, no Corydon was he To dream of love and cots in Arcady; His tastes were like the Argonauts of old, And only pastoral if the fleece was gold. The less men feel, the better they can feign To net a Romeo, needs it Romeos pain? No, the calm master of the Histrios art Keeps his head coolest while he storms your heart; Thus, our true mime no boundary overstept, POETIC AND DRAMATIC WORKS OF BULWER. 43 Charmed when he smiled, and conquered when he I between the English and the German as the wept. student of the original will find in Sir Edward Lyttons volume, was necessary and inevitable. Like those French trifles, elegant enough, If the true German lights and shades of feeling Which serve at once for music and for snuff, and expression could even have been preserved, Some minds there are which men you ask to dine they very often would have looked absurd in Eng- Take out, wind up, and circle with the wine. Two tunes they boast ; this FlatteryScandal that; lish words, because they would have looked strange. The one A sharpthe other something flat And having said this we ought to add that for Such was the mind that for display and use many reasons Schillers lesser poems are, at least Cased in ricoco, Harcourt could produce in a much greater degree than is usual with such Touch the one spring, an air that charmed the town a poet, adapted for translation. Their pure and Tripped out and jigged some absent virtue down? lofty feeling rises high and grand above those Touch next the other, and the bauble plays shadows of the clouds, beautiful but unsubstantial, Fly from the world or Once in happier days. about which we have been speaking. The sim- For Flattery, when a womans heart its aim, plicity of Schillers diction, and the prevalence of Writes itself Seetiineeta prettier name. a narrative form, render it easy at any rate to re- And to he just to Harcourt and his art, produce all his main outlines accurately; and thus Few Lauzuns better played a Werters part; a good English version of his lyrics, as we see by lie dressed it well, and Nature kindly gave the example of Sir E. B. Lyttons, forms a very His brow the paleness and his locks the wave. Mournful his smile, unconscious seemed his sigh; welcome and delightful volume. You d swear that Goethe had him in his eye. We quoted largely from it when first published. We shall now borrow some epigrams from the Votive Tablets, which appear to us for the most part extremely happy examples of close and easy translation. The New Timon (which has also been strengthened and improved throughout) a new and charming little fanciful story from one of the fabliaux, and several spirited lyrics, complete the contents of the volume. The translation of & hillers Poems and Ballads, forms a volume uniform with the series of Sir E. B. Lyttons collected poetry, in which (for reasons of copyright we presume) it has not been formally included. With the great and varied merits of this translation the public is familiar. Yet it may be advisable to point out that in this case, as in every case of the translation into English of a complete body of lyrics from another language, we must be content with but a portion of the impression out of which the originals sprung, though we ought to be more than ordinarily con- tent to receive it from a volume so delightful as this. A whole play or a long poem may often be translated very fairly, but the peculiar genius of a nation exercises such despotic sway over its lyric forms of utterance, that it is only practicable here and there to find any short work of a really great poet which can be transferred without considerable change of feeling into the language of another nation. This may he called unsound doctrine. It may he said that a great poet speaks not to his nation but to his race. Love, honor, religion, are themes for all mankind; and so they are. But subtle differences of complexion which exist between the minds of nations, distinctive habits of the intellect, find a most accurate exponent in the delicate ex- pression of naive emotion or of sentiment-we use the two words here in the sense which Schiller has applied to them. They become in fact distinctive crystals when run into the form of lyric. One sub- stance crystallizes into prisms, one into squares, and it is scarcely more difficult to break up one of the prisms and reconstruct it into an artificial square, than to break up a true German song and recoiu- street it into English. We call Goethe many- sided, but his songs are even more than usually ruddy with the national complexion. What is there, for example, that could give to an English mind the German appreciation of that delicate little gem with the refrain Roslein, ltdslein Rhilein roth, Roslein auf der Heide. Let us also say, however, that such change The Good and the Beautiful. (Zweierlei Wirkungsarten.) Achieve the Good, and godlike plants, possest Already by mankind, thou nourishest; Create the Beautiful, and seeds are sown For godlike plants, to man as yet unknown. Value and Worth. If thou hast something, bring thy goodsa fair returx~ be thine; If thou art something, bring thy soul and interchange with mine. The Dirision of Ranks. Yes, in the moral world, as ours, we see Iltivided gradesa Souls Nobility; By deeds their titles common men create The loftier order are by birthright great. To the .Mystics. Life has its mystery ;true, it is that one Surrounding all, and yet perceived by none. The Key. To know thyselfin others self discern Wouldst thou know others? read thyselfand learn! Wisdom and Prudence. Wouldst thou the loftiest height of Wisdom gain? On to the rashness, Prudence would disdain; The purblind see but the receding shore, Not that to which the hold wave wafts thee oer The Unanimity. Truth seek we boththou, in the life without thee and around; I in the heart withinby both can truth alike be found; The healthy eye can through the world the great Creator track The healthy heart is but the glass which gives crea- tion back. To ./lstronomers. Of your Nebulm and planets tease me not with your amount; What! is Nature only mighty inasmuch as you can count? Inasmuch as you can measure her immeasurable ways? As she renders world on world, sun and system to your gaze? THE LAY OF THE LOVERS FRIEND. Though through space your object be the sublimest to embrace, Never the sublime abidethwhere you vainly search in space. The Best Governed Stale. How the best state to know ?it is found out Like the best woman ;that least talked about. My Belief. What thy religion? those thou namestnone? None, whybecause I have religion! Friend and Foe. Dear is my friendyet from my foe, as from my friend, comes good; My friend shows what I can do, and my foe shows what I should. Light and Color. Dwell, Light, beside the changeless GodGod spoke and Light began; Come, thou, the ever-changing onecome, Color, down to Man! Forum of Women. Womanto judge man ri~htlydo not scan Each separate act ;pass judgment on the Man! Genius. Intellect can repeat what s been fulfilled, And, aping Nature, as she buildethbuild; Oer Natures base can haughty Reason dare To pile its lofty castlein the air. But only thine, 0 Genius, is the charge, In Natures kingdom Nature to enlarge! The Imitator. Good out of goodthat art is known to all But Genius from the bad the good can call; Thou, Mimic, turnst the same old substance oer, And seekst to fashion what was formed before Evn that to Genius from thy hand escapes, And lends but matter to the mind that shapes. Correctness. The calm correctness, where no fault we see, Attests Arts loftiest or its least degree; That ground in common two extremes may claim Strength most consummate, feebleness most tame. The Master. The herd of scribes, by what they tell us, Show all in which their wits excel us: But the true Master we behold In what his art leavesjust untold. Expectation and Fulfilment. Oer Ocean, with a thousand masts, sails forth the stripling bold One boat, hard rescued from the deep, draws into port the old! Other Epigrams, 4c. Give me that which thou knowestI 11 receive and attend: But thou givst me thyselfprithee, spare me, my friend! The Proselyte Maker. A little Earth from out the Earthand I The Earth will move ; so spake the Sage divine. Out of myself one little momenttry Myself to take :succeed, and I am thine! The Connecting Medium. What to cement the lofty and the mean Does Nature ?what ?place vanity between The Moral Poet. This is an epigram on Lavaters work, called Pontius Pilatus, oder der Mensch in allen Gestal- ten, & c.HorrnEssTER. How poor a thing is man ! alas, t is true I d half forgot ittwhen I chanced on you! Science. To some she is the Goddess great; to some the milch- cow of the field; Their care is but to calculatewhat butter she will yield. Kant and his Commentators. How many starvelings one rich man can nourish! When monarchs build, the rubbish-carriers flourish. This translation has our best wishes. With infinite poetic feeling and beauty, and at the cost of a labor which few will easily appreciate, Sir E. B. Lytton has provided for the English reader a book that will long remain to give him pleasnre. From the Book of Ballads, by Boo Goaltier. Reprinted by J. S. Redfield, N. York. THE LAY OF THE LOVER~ S FRIEND. I wocan all womankind were dead, Or banished oer the sea; For they have been a bitter plague These six last weeks to me. It is not that I m touched myself, For that I do not fear; No female face bath shown me grace For many a bygone year. But t is the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who s lost his heart A short time ago. Wheneer we steam it to Blackwall, Or down to Greenwich run, To quaff the pleasant cider cup, And feed on fish and fun Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, To catch a breath of air Then for my sins, he straight begins To rave about his fair. Oh, t is the most tremendous bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who s lost his heart A short time ago. In vain you pour into his ear Your own confiding grief; In vain you claim his sympathy, In vain you ask relief; In vain you try to rouse him by Joke, repartee, or quiz His sole reply s a burning sigh, And What a mind it is ! Oh, t is the most tremendous bore, & c. I ye heard her thoroughly described A hundred times, I m sure, And all the while I ye tried to smile, And patiently endure; He waxes strong upon his pangs, And potters oer his grog; And still I say, in a playful way, Why, you re a lucky dog But, oh it is the heaviest bore, & c. I really wish he d do like me, When I was young and strong; I formed a passion every week, But never kept it long. But he has not the sportive mood That always rescued me, And so I would all women could Be banished oer the sea. For ,t is the most egregious bore, & c. 44~ From the Ex miner. Letters of Percy Byssite Shelley. With an Intro- ductory Essay by ROBERT BROWNING. Moxon. THE names of two poets on the title-page give promise of an interest which this brief volume is not altogether calculated to produce. Yet in the few letters of Shelley which Mr. Muxon has obtained, and here for the first time published, there is close and constant reference to those earnest and painful struggles with society into which the poet had been led by the very truth of his nature, although carried astray into a path which earned for him in his own day the bitter censure of the hasty and misjudging. Most truly does Mr. Browning tell us in his pref- ace, when speaking of the biographic value of Shelleys correspondence: This value I take to consist in a most truthful con- formity of the correspondence, in its limited degree, with the moral and intellectual character of the writer as displayed in the highest manifestations of his genius. Letters and poems are obviously an act of the same mind, produced by the same law, only dif- fering in the application to the individual or collective understanding. Letters and poems may be used in- differently as the basement of our opinion upon the writers character; the finished expression of a senti- ment in the poems, giving light and significance to the rudiments of the same in the letters, and these again, in their incipiency and unripeness, authenti- cating the exalted mood and reattaching it to the per- sonality of the writer. The musician speaks on the note he sings with ; there is no change in the scale, as he diminishes the volume into familiar intercourse. There is nothing of that jarring between the man and the author, which has been found so amusing or so melancholy; no dropping of the tragic mask, as the crowd melts away ; no mean discovery of the real motives of a lifes achievement, often, in other lives, laid bare as pitifully as when, at the close of a holiday, we catch sight of the internal lead-pipes and wood- valves, to which, and not to the ostensible conch and dominant Triton of the fountain, we have owed our admired water-work. No breaking out, in household privacy, of hatred, anger, and scorn, incongruous with the higher mood and suppressed artistically in thebook; no brutal return to seW-delighting, when the audience of philanthropic schemes is out of hearing ; no indecent stripping off the grander feeling and rule of life as too costly and cumbrous for every-day wear. Whatever Shelley was, he was with an admirable sincerity. It was not always truth that he thought and spoke; but in the purity of truth he spoke and thought always. This is truth well expressed; and now that the heat of the young poets strife is over, his claim to the love of our hearts and to the reverence of our intellects is perfectly acknowledged. For this reason we are half disposed to question the propriety of publishing a few letters, some of them written in very early youth, which repeat in new words well-known impressions, raising higher the pile over the name of Shelley, but not adding width to its base. To the biographer who is to come, for a worthy biography of Shelley has not yet been written, these letters will give some assistance ; btit, in the multitude of well-disposed but not wide-minded readers, they will in the mean time be very likely to renew erroneous im- pressions, because the most extreme opinions, resulting from the struggle in the poets mind, are to be found expressed in them. To error there is, however, antidote provided in the Essay by which the letters are introduced. The author of Christmas Eve and Easter day is ntt 45 wanting in orthodoxy, any more fhan the author of Paracelsus and Pippa Passes is wanting in large- minded sympathy with what is genuine in man and nature. Taking the point of view selected by the narre)west of censors, Mr. Browning can yet see in Shelley a man true, simple-hearted, and brave; and because what he acted corresponded to what he knew, aol call him arnan of religious mind, because every audacious negative cast up by him against the Divine was interpenetrated with a mood of reverence and adoration. Mr. Brownings introduction is perhaps more characteristic than might be desired. The feeling and the language of a poet prevail through its whole texture, and there are passages written with peculiar force, clearness, arid beauty. But when Mr. Browning lays a landscape down in words, it would appear that he can never think it perfect without mists in plenty ; mists that conceal ~vhat is really worth seeing, and for that reason we paaticu- larly object to them. Mr. Browning is a man whose thoughts we do not wish to lose, but in this busy ~vorld there is not always time to study for them. It is not that he is always dark because his thoughts lie too deep for expression; his mists often arise from the simpler cause, that he fails to put his words clearly together. Let us justify this remark by an example. Jiere is a passage over which dur head swam, and it was not until after a second reading that we found our difficulty to be caused by want of stops. The whole of the succeeding extract is a single sentence, occupying just two pages in the book. The Remainsproduced within a period of ten years, and at a season of life when other men of at all comparable genius have hardly done more than prepare the eye for future sight and the tongue for speechpresent us with the complete engi nery of a poet, as signal in the excellence of its several adapt itudes as transcendent in the combination of effects examples, in fact, of the whole poets function of beholding with an understanding keenness the uni- verse, nature and man, in their actual state of per- fection in imperfectionof the whole poets virtue of being untempted by the manifold partial developments of beauty and good on every side, into leaving them the ultimates he found theminduced by the facility of the gratification of his own sense of those qualities, or by the pleasure of acquiescence in the short-comings of his predecessors in art, and the pain of disturbing their conventionalisms the whole poets virtue, I re- peat, of looking higher than any manifestation yet rAnde of both beauty and good, in order to sug~est from the utmost actual realization of the one a corresponding capability in the other, and out of the calm, purity, and energy of nature, to reconstitute and store up for the forthcoming stage of mans being, a gift in re- payment of that former gift, in which mans own thought and passion had been lavished by the poet on the else-incompleted magnificence of the sunrise, the else-uninterpreted mystery of the lakeso drawing out, lifting up, and assimilating this ideal of a future man, thus descried as possible, to the present reality of the poets soul already arrived at the higher state of development, and still aspirant to elevate and extend itself in conformity with its still-improving perceptions of, no longer the eventual Human, but the actual Divine. This is by no means to be taken singly as a specimen of Mr. Brownings portion of the present volume. No man can write more lucid sentences than Mr. Browning can write when he pleases, and does write abundantly in this Essay. We give one more extract from it. LETTERS OF PERCY BYSSUE SHELLEY. VOCAL EXOTICS. He died before his youth ended. In taking the measure of him as a man, he must be considered on the whole and at his ultimate spiritual stature, and not be judged of at the immaturity and by the mis- takes of ten years before; that, indeed, would be to judge of the author of Julian and Maddalo by Zastrozzi. Let the whole truth be told of his worst mistake. I believe, for my own part, that if anything could now shame or grieve Shelley, it would be an attempt to vindicate him at the expense of another. In forming a judgment, I would, however, press on the reader the simple justice of considering tenderly his constitution of body as well as mind, and how unfavorable it was to the steady symmetries of con- ventional life ; the body, in the torture of incurable disease, refusing to give repose to the bewildered soul, tossing in its hot fever of the fancyand the laudanum-bottle making but a perilous and pitiful truce between these two. He was constantly subject to that state of mind (I quote his own note to Heilas) in which ideas may be supposed to assnme the force of sensation, through the confusion of thought with the objects of thou~ht, and excess of passion animating the creations of the imagination ; in other words, he was liable to remarkable delusions and hallucinations. The nocturnal attack in Wales, for instance, was assuredly a delusion ; and I venture to express my own conviction, derived from a little attention to the circumstances of either story, that the idea of the enamored lady following him to Naples, and of the man in the cloak who struck him at the Pisan post-office, were equally illusorythe mere projection, in fact, from himself, of the image of his own love and hate. To thirst and find no fillto wail and wander With short unsteady stepsto pause and ponder To feel the blood run through the veins and tingle When busy thonght and blind sensation mingle To nurse the image of unfelt caresses Till dim ima~,ination just possesses The half-created shadow of unfelt caressesand of unfelt blows as well ; to such conditions was his genius subject. It was not at Rome only (where he heard a mystic voice ex- clamming, Ceuci, Cenci, in reference to the tragic theme which occupied him at the time)it was not at Rome only that he mistook the cry of old rags. The habit of somnambulism is said to have extended to the very last days of his life. From the letters themselves we could find many pleasant passages to quote ; we mnst content our- selves, however, with a single specimen. There is a kind of superstitious veneration which inclines people to adhere with pertinacity to the ideas which they have formed, no matter whether good or bad. What I sent you last is not enough for a pamphlet, I grant you, but I cannot help it. A subject scn exhausts itself with me. You must get some of your volume friends to spin the text for you. There are three classes of women that may be denomi- nated from the Greek numbersMaids of the Singu- jar, Wives of the Dual, and Courtesans of the Plural. These may again be compounded according to the different circumstances of eachthe constant mistress may be styled the Single-Dual, widows the Dual- Single, and faithless wives the Dual-Plural. Re-married widows may assume this latter de- nomination alsowhich, however, I do not mean as the least reflection on their chastity; but that I find myself quite at a loss in what other class to com- prehend themand it may be all the same isi the Greek perhaps. I am sorry that so much has been said about the blues; it is a pity that such a hue-and-cry has been raised against them all, good, bad, and indifferent John Bull would have settled it best by just letting them alone, leaving the disagreeable ones to die off in single blessedness. But the ceruleanly bluethe true celestial, she who really has heaven in her eye ; follow her to the worlds end. Love her Adore her! You must and will. Win her and wear, if you can. She is the most delightful of Gods creaturesHeavens best gift ; mans joy and pride in prosperity ;mans support and comforter in affliction. I know there are philosophical unbelievers who would class my true celestials among fabulous creatures. I own they are rare; but that such have existed, men of undoubted credibilit.y and wisdom (Solomon among others) have testified in the strongest terms. That such do exist I can affirmfor I know someone I hope to have for my ownIn the seasons of silence and solitude only do we learn to appeciate woman. The hurry of the world shuts her out from our soul ; but when there is silence in the mindwhen the heart restswhen the hush of the world has breathed over the spirit when the mind, self left, feels itself in its loneliness then is its hour of contemplation. Characteristic as this letter is, it shares that quality with all the rest in the collection. It was nemt in Shelleys power to control the free expression of his feelings atid opinions. Whenever he wrote, therefore, however carelessly he might be writing, he could not fail to stamp his individuality npon the paper. These letters, consequently, will be sought amid read ; thongh many, like ourselves, while glad to read them, will be eqnally disposed to think that they might more prudently have been allowed to rest unpublished. From the Spectator. Vocal Exotics. .11 Selection of the most admired Songs of various .Nations. Written and adapted by W. BARTHOLOMEW, EsQ. Tnss is a serial publication, of which six numbers, songs of Germany, have appeared. We have two of them before us ; Flowers (Die Bluin en) by Methfessel, and Lotus Bloom (Die Lotus Blume) by Lachner. Both these musicians are voluminous and popular ballad-composers ; and the above songs are pretty fair specimens of the common run of Ger- man productions of this sort. For some years past we have been inundated with German Lieder. The great beauty of these of Schubert brought the class into general vogue; it is well known that his death was followed by a wholesale manufacture of pretended posthumous works ; and hence the heaps of sengs published under the name of Schubert which do not show a spark of his genius. He has crowds of imitators, of various degrees of talent. Some have copied his style with success, and have produced very pretty things, but the bulk exhibit the faults rather than the merits of the German vocal schoolpaucity of melody, excessive modulation, straining after an usual phrases, and overlabored accompaniment. But, good or bad, they are the fashion ; they are imported in shoals, and published with the original words as well as English versions ; while our accomplished damsels, proud of their German lore, delight the ears of their hearers with exaggerated aspirates and gut-. turals, forgetting or despising the rich and varied treasures of our own English melody and song~ Were it not for the unfortunate contempt bred by familiarity, who would compare these German exotics to the songs and ballads of Purcell, Arne, Shield~ Storace, and Arnold; or to those of our living coun- trymen, Bishop, Barnett, Macfarren, and Edward Loder? Taking the vocal schools of the two countries~ generally, as exemplified by the mass of their pro- 46 OCEAN POSTAGE.FOREST TEAChINGS. ductions, every unprejudiced taste will give the palm to our own, for simple, flowing, and iiatural melody, as well as for truth and variety of expression. The two songs before us will find many admirers among those who attach paramount importance to ingenious contrivance and full harmony. In both of them the motive is very pretty, but the ear is soon teased by abrupt transitions into irrelative keys, which the most skilful singer could not readily bit without the connecting chords furnished by the piano- forte. Such modulations are necessary for the occa- sional production of strong effect, but are out of place in short and simple ballads. Nor do they show any great amount of technical skill. To modulate, said thc illustrious Piccini, is not difficult in itself; there is a routine for that as well as all other trades. The proof of this is found in those enharmonic modu- lations which appear to the ignorant as the height of science, and are after all the mere sport of scholars. In the best and most undoubtedly genuine songs of Schubert there is no great display of this kind of learning. When we find it in the class of music of which we are speaking, it is generally in the inverse ratio of the composers geniusserving as a cloak to cover lack of feeling and poverty of invention. German ballad poetry, moreover, is marked with the national character of the people. It is imagina- tive and fantastic, with little sensibility or passion. It reminds us of the French writers remark, that, pour faire sentir un Allemand, ii faut ldcorcher. Such are the songs before us ; their words are fanci- ful conceits, utterly cold and scarcely intelligible. From the Spectator. OCEAN POSTAGE. A NUMEROUS meeting assembled in the Town-hall of Manchester last week, to hear Mr. Elihu Burritts explanation of his plan of an Ocean Penny Postage. Mr. Alexander Henry, M. P., Mr. Heald, M. P., Mr. Bazlcy, President of the Chamber of Commerce, and several leading citizens, were present. Mr. Burritt explained, that his plan simply con- templates the charging of a penny for the single service of transporting the letter from shore to shore, between Great Britain and any country beyond the seas ; one penny for its mere conveyance from Liver- pool to New York, Southampton to Bombay, from Dover to Calais, from Hull to Petersburg, and vice versa. Thus the postage on a letter from any town in the United Kingdom to any part beyond the seas would be twopenceone penny for the inland route, and a penny over the ocean. If all other countries should adopt an inland penny postage like England, then the charge of a letter from any town in Great Britain to any town in the civilized world would be threepence. To make the project pay, there must be twice as many letters as now between Dover and Ostend, three times as many between Dover and Calais, four times as many between New York and Liverpool. At present the cost between London and Paris is lOd., and of this price 6~d. goes for the sea voyage. If the 6~d. were reduced to ld., and the whole postage to 4~d., would not the letters to Paris double themselves? With respect to American cor- respondence, Mr. Burritt said, there are about 400,000 persons emigrating from Europe to Nort.h America in one year; they are rapidly increasing, and in three years they will amount to a million. Now these persons, of all others, as~e the least able to pay the heavy charges upon the letters which they send or receive from their friends. Is it not fair to assume that these millions of people who emigrate to North America during the next three years, would write, if the ocean penny postage were established, at least two letters per head annually to their friends in Europe, and receive two in return? From this source alone there would he four millions of letters a year, or twice the number that annually cross the Atlantic. These two sources alone would quadruple the number of letters now conveyed between Great Britain and North America ; and that increase is all that is needed to produce as much revenue as the existing charge. The number of inhabitants residing in California during 1550 probably averaged 125,000; all of whom left friends in the United States or Europe, and were anxious to hear from them by every steamer. For every letter they posted or received they were charged is. Sd. ; notwithstanding this heavy charge they sent and received 150,000 letters. Is it not fair to assume, that t.he 400,000 emigrants, who went out last year, would write two letters each to their friends in Europe, if the ocean penny postage were established? Mr. Henry, M. P., gave his opinion, without any doubt whatever, that, after a short period, the penny rate would be a paying one. The meeting adopted the following resolution That the trade and commerce of this kingdom with all other countries of the civilized world calls for the adoption of a uniform rate of ocean penny posta~,e, as a means .jf cementing the bonds of peace and amity, and for extending the various philan- thropic and Christian movements of the age. From Chambers Journal. FOREST-TEACHINGS. TrixitE was travelling in the wild-wood Once, a child of song; And he marked the forest-monarchs As he went along. here, the oak, broad-caved and spreading; Here, the poplar tall; here, the holly, forky-leaved here, the yew, for the bereaved; here, the chestnut, with its flowers, and its spine-bestudded ball. Here, the cedar, palmy-branchdd; here, the hazel low here, the aspen, quivering ever; here, the powdered sloe. Wondrous was their form and fashion, Passing beautiful to see How the branches interlaced, how the leaves each other chased, Fluttering lightly hither, thither on the wind-arousdd tree. Then he spake to those wood-dwellers Ye are like to men, And I learn a lesson from ye With my spirits ken. Like to us in low beginning, Children of the patient earth Born, like us, to rise on high, Ever nearer to the sky, And, like us, by slow advances from the minute of your birth. And, like mortals, ye have uses Uses each his own; Each his gift, and each his beauty, Not to other known. Thou, 0 oak, the strong ship-builder, For thy countrys good, Givest up thy noble life, Like a patriot in the strife, Givest up thy heart of timber, as he poureth out his blood. Thou, 0 poplar, tall and taper, Reachest up on high; Like a preacher pointing upward. Upward to the sky. 47 48 NEW BOOKS. Thou, 0 holly, with thy berries, Gleaming redly bright, Comest, like a pleasant friend, When the dying year bath end, Comest to the Christmas party, round the ruddy fire-light. Thou, 0 yew, with sombre branches, And dark-veildd head Like a monk within the church-yard, When the prayers are said, Standing by the newly-buried In the depth of thought Tellest, with a solemn grace, Of the earthly dwelling-place, Of the soul to live foreverof the body come to nought. Thou, 0 cedar, storm-enduring, Bent with years, and old, Standest with thy broad-eaved branches, Shadowing oer the mould; Shadowing oer the tender saplin0s, Like a patriarch mild, When he lifts his hoary head, And his hands a blessing shed, On the little ones around himon the chil- dren of his child. And the light, smooth-barked hazel, And the dusky sloe, Are the poor inca of the forest Are the weak and low. Yet unto the poor is given Power the earth to bless And the sloes small fruit of down, And the hazels clusters brown, Are the tribute they can offerare their mite of usefulness. When the awful words were spoken, It is finishdd! When the all-loving heart was broken, Bowed the patient head When the earth grew dark as midnight In her solemn awe Then the forest-branches all Bent with reverential fall Bent, as bent the Jewish foreheads giving of the law. at the But one tree was in the forest That refused to bow Then a sudden blast came oer it, And a whisper low Made the leaves and branches quiver Shook the guilty tree And the voice was: Tremble ever To eternity: Be a lesson from thee read He that boweth not his head, And obeyeth not his Maker, let him fear eternally So thou standest ever shaking, Ever quivering with fear, For the voice is still upon thee, And the whisper near. Like the guilty, conscience-haunted And the name for thee Is, The tree of many thoughts Is, The tree of many doubts ; And thy leaves are thoughts and doubtings for thou art the sinners tree. Thou, 0 chestnut, richly branch6d, Standest in thy might, Rising like a leafy tower In the summer light. And thy branches are fruit-laden, Waving bold and free; And the beams upon thee shed Are like blessings on thy head; Thou art strong, and fair, and fruitfulfor thou art the good mans tree. So, farewell, great forest-teachers; There is a spirit dwells In the veinings of each leaflet, In each flowers cells Ye have each a voice and lesson, And ye seem to say; Open, man, thine eyes to see In each flower, stone, and tree, Something pure and something holy, as thou passest on thy way. NEW BOOKS. .Afemories of the Greet .Mietropolis; or, London from the Tower to the Crystal Palace. By F. Saunders. In one volume. pp. 311. New York: George P. Putnam. This book will have an extensive sale, because it will command it by the variety and comprehensive- ness of its information. We recollect obtaining, when a lad, a copy of Leighs New Picture of London, and to this day we trace much of our familiarity with the vast metropolis of Britain to the great interest which was awakened in our mind by the perusal of that volume. But Mr. Saunders, himself an Eng- lishman, and an old Londoner, has given to the American reader a compact manual for persons visit- ing the Great Metropolis, so verbosely described by that preilminent twaddler, Grant, or who contem- plate making the trans-Atlantic tour. As the com- piler remarks, in a few modest words to his readers, it is the first book of the kind published in this coun- try, and differs from ordinary guide-books in that it indicates, in a brief, suggestive way, the numerous shrines of genius, historical localities, and various memorabilia of London. More than any other city of Europe, says Mr. Saunders, the British capital abounds with nooks and corners, and the memorials of the great and good of past times ; and it is this precise kind of information, which the lover of literature and the intelligent tourist most desires, but which is usually inaccessible, that the manual before us is intended to supply. It exhibits London past and present at one view. There are no less than thirty-eight engravings in the book, representing the most memorable and interesting objects of a mi~hty metropolis, some thirty-five miles in circumference. Of the mechanical execution of the book, it is quite sufficient to say, that it is from Putna s press. Kniclcerboclcer. The .Jansenists: their Rise, Persecutions by the Jesuits, and existing Remnant. .il Chapter in Church History. By S. P. Tregelles, LL. D. Dr. Treg lles calls the story of the Jansenists A Chapter in Church history but it is not less truly a chapter in the history of the hum a intellect. As an example of the gradual working up of the mind through mountains of dead formalism to an apprecia- tion of subjective truths, nothing better or more beautiful is found on record. And here we have the story told once more :Pascal, the mire ./lngilique, St. Byran, and the other notabihities are brought before the reader with force, discrimination, and vividness. The narrative is one of which the world will never tire. We need only add that the substance of the present work appeared originally in Kittos Journal of Biblical Literature for January, 15Th .lthenc2um.

LITTELLS LIVING AGE.No. 412.1O APRIL, 1852. From ~tknssehoId Words. RAINBO V NAKIN4V. It is a great ideatoo large to he arrived at but by degreesthat the fleec a of sheep can clothe nations of men. The fleece of a sheep, when ulled and spread out, leoks much larger than while coverin,, the motton; hut stilt it is with a s rt of despair that we think of the quantity required, and of the ~ressing and preparation necessary, for ~lothi. g fteea million of rn n in 0 e country, and double the number in another, (to say nothing of the wemen,) and of the number of countries, each containing its millions, which are incessantly de- osanding the fleeces of sheep to clothe their inhabit- ants. We remember the hill-sides of our own mountainous districts; and the wide grassy plains of Saxosy; and the boundless table lands of Thibet, and the valleys of Cashmere, all speckled over with flocks; we think of the Australian sheep-walks, vhere there are flocks of such unmanageable size, hat the whole sheep is boiled down for tallow; we think of Prince Esterhazys repl,y to the ques- tion of an English no leman, when shown Vast flocks, and asked how his sheep in Hungary would compare in number ~vith thesethat his shepherds out-nurn ered the Englishmans sheep; we think of these things, and by degrees begin to unders and ow wool enough may be produ ed to furnish the broadcloths and flannels of the world. Bnt the most strong and agile imagination is confounded when the material of silk is considered in the same way. Compare a caterpillar with a sheep; com- pare the cocoon of a silkworm (the achievement of its life) with the annual fleece of a sheep; and the supply of silk for the looms of Europe, Asia, and America, seems a mere miracle. The marvel is the greater, not the less, when one is in a silk- growing region at tending to the facts and appear- ances, than when trying to conceive of them at home. In Lombardy, ~xe travel, from day to day, during the whole month of May, between rows of mulberry trees, where the peasants are busy pro- viding food for the worms; a man in the tree stripping off the leaves, and two women below with sacks, to carry home the foliage. We see what tons of leaves per mile must be thus gathered daily for weeks together; we ~o into houses in every village to inspect the worms; we mount to the flat roofs of the dwellings, and find in each countless multitudes of the worms; we pass on, from country (i country, till we mount to the hamlets, perched on the rocky shelves of the Lebanon ; and we find everywhere the insect secretin its gum, or spin- nin g it forth as silk; we retnember that the same process is ,,oing forward in the heart of our Indian Peninsula, and throughout China; we look at the broad belt round the globe where the little worm is forming its cocoons; and still we find it impo~sible to imagine how enough silk is produced to supply the wants of the world, from the brocade of the Asiatic potentate to the wedding ribbon of the English dairy-maid. Nowhere is the speculation more difficult than in a dye-house at Coventry. Probably there was as much wonder excited by the same thought, when King Henry VIII. wore OCOCIJI. LIVING AGE. VOL. XXXIII. 4 the first pair of silk stockings brought to England from Spain; and when Francis I. looked after the mulberry trees in France, and fixed some silk weavers at Lyons; and when our Queen Mary passed a law forbidding servant-maids to wear ribbon on bonnets; and when monarch after monarch passed acts to teach how silk should be boiled, and whence it should be brought, and ~vlto should and who should not wear it when wrought; but the perplexity and amazement of king, lords, and comn- mons ould hardly, at any time, have exceeded that of the humblest visitor of to-day in any dye-house at Coventry. We know something of the fact of this astonishtnent; for we have been noting the wottders that are to be found on the premises of Messrs. Leavesley and Hands, at Coventry. On entering ~ve see, ranged along the counters, half round the room, bundles of glossy silk, of the most brilliant colors Blues, rose-colors, greens, lilacs, make a rainbow of the place. It is only two days since this silk was brought in in a very dif- ferent condition. The throwster, (to throw, ttteatis to twist or twine,) after spinning the raw silk, im- ported from Italy, Turkey, Bengal, and China, into threads fit for the loom, sent it here in bundles, gummy, ltsrsh, dingy; except, indeed, the Italian, which looks, till washed, like fragments of Jasons fleece. If bundles, and regiments of butidles, like these, come into one dye-house every few days, t~ be prepared f r the weaving of ribbons ale e, and for the ribbon-weaving of a single town, it is overwhelming to think of the amount of productioti required for the broad silk-weaving of England, of Europe, of the world. Of the silk dyed at Coven- try, about eighty per cent. is used for the ribbon- weaving of the city and neighborh (td; and th quantIty averages six tons and a half weekly. 0P the remaining twenty per cent., half is used for the manufacture of fringes; and the otlterhalfg ~to Macclesfield, Congleton, and Derby. The harsh, gummy silk that comes in r the throwing mills is boiled wrunix o (It, and boiled agatn. If it wants blca hing, there is a sort of open oven of a house; a vault in the yard,,where it is sulphured. The heat, and the a usation in th throat, inform us in a tnotnent wh re we have got to. When the banks come forth from this process, every thread is separated from its neigh r, awl the whole bundle is soft, dry, and glossy. Thee follows the dyeing. To make the siih receive the colors, it is dipped in a mordant, hi ome diluted acid, or solution (if metal, which nables the color to bite into the fibre. To make pi ~ks of all shades, the silk is (lipped in diluted tartaric acid for the toordant, an(l then in a decoetion f safflower for the hue. To make plum-color or puce, indigo is the dye, with a cochitical. To make black, nitrate of iron first ; then a washing follows; and then a dipping in iogwood dye, mixed with soap and water. For a white, pete enottgh for ribbons, the silk has to pass through the three primary colors, yellow, red, and blue. The dipping, ~vrtngtng, splashing, stirring, boiling, drying, go on vtgorously, from end to end of the large pretn- inca,. as. may be supposed, when the fact is ~merttiooed that the daily Cotiatituptiutt of watet RAINBOW MAKING. amounts to one hundred thousand gallons. A reservoir, in the middle of the yard, formerly sup- plied the water; but it proved insufficient, or un- certain; and now it is about to be filled up, and an Artesian well is opened to the depth of one hundred and ninety-five feet. The dyeinb sheds are pave(l with pebbles or bricks, crossed with gutters, and variegated with gay puddles. Stout brick-built coppers are stationed round the l)laee. Above each copper are cocks, which let in but and cold water from the pipes that travel round the walls of the sheds. There are woodeu troughs for the dye; and to these troughs the water is conveyed by spouts. The silk hangs down into the dye from poles, smoothly turned arid uniform, which are laid across the troughs by the dozen or more at on.ce. These staves are procured from Derby. They cost from six shillings to twenty-four shillings per dozen, and constitute an independent subsidiary inanufac- lure. The silk hanks being suspended from these poles, two men, standing on either side the trough, take up two poles, souse, and shake, and plunge he silk, and turn that which had been uppermost under the surface of the liquor, and pass on to the next two. When done enough, the silk is wrung out and pressed, and taken to the drying-house. The heat in that large chamber s about one hun- dred degrees. On enterin0 it, everybody begins to cough. The place is lofty and large. The taves, xvhich are laid across beams,to contain the uspended silk, make little movable ceilings here and there. This chamber contains five or six hundred-weights of silk at once. Our minds glance once more towards the spinning insects on hearing this; and we ask again, how much of their produce may be woven into fabrics in Coventry alone We think ~ve must have made a mistake in setting down the weekly average at six tons and a half. But the e was no mistake. It is really so. While speaking of weight, we heard something which reminded us of King Charles I. s opinions about some practices which were going fbrward before our eyes. It appears that the silk which comes to the dye-house is heavy with guru to the amount of one fourth of its eight. This gum must be boiled out before the silk can be dyed. But the manufacturers of cheap goods require that the material shall not be so light s this pro- ce s would leave it. It is dipped in well-sugared water, which adds about eight per cent. to tts xveight. Many tons of sugar per year are used as (what the proprietor called) the silk-dyers devife (lust. It was this very practice which excited the wrath of our pious King Charles, in all his bor or of double-dealing. A proclamation of his, of the date of 1630, declares his fears of the consequences of a deceitful handling of the ma- terial, by adding to its weight in dyeing, and ordains that the whole shall be done as soft as t ossible ; that no black shall be used but Spanish black, an that the gum ~Lll be fair boiled off before dyeing. He found in time, that he had meddled with matter that he did not understand, and had gone too far. Some of the fabrics of his (lay requir to be made of hard silk ; and he took back his orders in 1638, having becotne, as he said, better informed. From trough ~o trough we go,hreathing steam, and stepping into puddles, or reeking rivulets rippling over the s~ones of the pavement; but we re tempted on,like children, by the charm of the brilliant colors that flash upon the sight ~vhichever way we turn. What a lilac this is! Is if possible that such a line can stand? It could not stand even the drying, but for the alkali into which it is dipped. It is dyed in orchil first, and then made bluer, and somewhat more secore, by being soused in a well-soaped alkaline mixture.~Tbat is a good red brown. It is from Brazil wood, with alum for its mordantThis is a brilliant blue indigo, of course? Ye , sulphate (If indigo, with tartaric acidHere are t~vo yellows; how is that. One is much better than the other; moreover, it makes a better green ; moreover, it wears immeas- urably better.But what is it? The inferi r one is the old-fashioned tu meric, with tartaric acid. And the improved yellow?O! we perceive. It is a secret of the establishment, and we are not to ask questions about it. But among all these men employed here, are there none accessib e to a bribe from a rival in the art~ There is no saying; for the men cannot be tempted. They do not know, any more than ourselves, what this myst nuns yel- low is. But why does it not supersed the old- fashioned turmeric ?lt will, no doubt; and it is gaining rapidly upon it; but it takes time to estab- lish improvements. The improvement in greens, however, is fast recommending the new yellow. This deep amber is a fine color. We find it called California, which has a modern sound in it. This Napoleon blue (not Louis Napoleons) is rich color. It gives a good deal of trouble. Iher is actually a precipitation of metal, (If tin, upon every fibre, to make it receive the dye; and then it has to be washed; and then dipped a~ain, before it can take a darker bade; and afterwards washed again over and over, till it is dark enough ; when it is finally soused in water which laas fullers earth in it, to make it soft enough for ~vorking and ~ear.Wbat is doing with that dirty white bun- dle? It is silk of a thoroughly bad color. Whether it is the fault of the worm, or of Pie worms food, or what, the e is ao sayingthat is the manufacturers affair. He sent it here. It is now to be sulphured, and dipped in a very faint shade (If indigo, curdled over with soap. This wiB improve it, but not make it equal to a purer white silk. Next, the wet lianks have to be squeezed in the Archimedean press, and then hung tip in tha large, hot drying-room. One serious matter remains unintelligible to us Plaid ribbonsthat is, all sorts of checked ribbons have been in fashion 50 long now, that we have had time to speculate (which we have often done) on how they can possibly be made. About the colors of the warp (the long way of the ribbon) we are clear enough. But Itow, in the weft, do the colors duly return, so as to make the stripes, and therefore the cheeks, rectir at equal distances? We are now shown how this was done formerly, and how it is done now. Formerly, the hanks were tied very ti~htly, at equal distances, and the alternate spaces do ely wrapped round with paper, or wound round with packthread. This took up a great deal of time. We were shown a much better plan. A shallow box is made, so as t hold within it tlte halves of several skeins of silk; these halves being curiously twiste(l, so as to alternate with the other halves when the hanks are shaken back into their right position for winding. One half being within the box, and the other hanging out, the lid is bolted down so tight that the dye cannot creep into the box; and the out-hanging silk is dipped. So much can be done at once, that the savitig of time is very great, and, judging by the prodigious array of plaid ribbons that we saw 50 RAINBOW MAKING. 51 in the looms afterwards, the value of the invention a rainbow for the pocket. This looks like womans is no trifle. The name of this novelty is the work; hut there are no women here. The men Clouding Box. will not allow it. Women cannot be kept out of We see a bundle of cotton. What has cotton to the ribbon-weaving; but in the dye-house they do here It is from Nottinghamvery fine and must not set foot, though the work, or the chief part well twisted. It is a pretty pink, and it costs one of it, is far from laborious, and requires a good eye shilling and sixpence pe~ pound to dye. But what and tact, more than qualities less feminine. We is it for~Ah! that is the question It is to mix found many apprentices in the works, receiving in with silk, to make a cheap ribbon. Another nearly half the amount of wages of their qualified pinch of devils dust, elders. The men earn from ten shillings to thirty There is a calendering process employed in the shillings a-week, according to their qualifications. final preparation of the dried silk, by which, we Nearly half of the whole number earn about fifteen believe, its gloss is improved ; but it was not in shillings a-week at the present time. operation at the time of our visit. We saw, and And, now, we are impatient to follow these watched with great curiosity, a still later process jiretty silk bundles to the factory, and see the more pretty to witness than easy to achievethe weaving. It is strange to see, on our way to so maktng up of the banks. This is actually the thoroughly modern an establishment, such tokens most difficult thing the men have to learn in the (if antiquity, or reminders of antiquity, as we have ~vhole business. Of course, therefore, it is no to pass. We pass under St. Michaels Church, matter for description. The twist, the insertion and look up, amazed, to the beauty and loftiness of of the arm, the jerk, the drawing of the mysterious its tower and spire ;the spire tapering off at a knot, may be Iboked at for hours and days, without height of three hundred and twenty feet. The the spectator having the least idea how die thing crumbling nature of the stone gives a richness and is done. We went from workman to workman beauty to the edifice, which we would hardly part from him who was making up the blue, to him with for such clear outlines as those of the restored who was making up the redwe saw one of the Trinity Church, close at hand. And then, at an proprietors make up several banks at the speed of anole of the market-place, there is Tom, peeping twenty in four minutes artd a half and we are no past the cornerlooking out of his window, through more likely to be able to do it than if we had his spectacles, witlt a stealthy air, which, however never entered a dye-house. Peeping Tom might ridiculous, makes one thrill, as with a whiff of the spy for very long before he would be much the breeze which stirred the Lady Qodivas hair, on wiser; when done, the effect is beautiful. The that memorable day, so long ago. It is strange, snaky coils of the polished silk throw off the light after this, to see the factory chimney, strhight, tall like fragments of mirrors. arid handsome, in its ~vay, with its inlaying of col- Another mysterious process is the marking of ored bricks, towering before us to about the ~he silk which belongs to each manufacturer. The height of a hundred and thirty feet. No place has banks and bundles are tied with cotton string; and proved itself more unwilling than Coventry to this string is knotted with knots at this end, at that admit such innovations. No place has made a more end, in the middle, in ties at the sides, with knots desperate resistance to the introduction of steam numbering from one to fifteen, twenty, or whatever power. No place has more perseveringly strug- number may be necessary; and the manufacturers oled for protection, witim groans, menaces, and particular system of knots is posted in the books supplications. Up to a late period, the Coventry with his name, the quantity of silk sent in, the dye weavers believed themselves safe from the inroads required, and all other particulars. of steam power. A Macclesfield mannfactmtrer We were amused to find that there is a particu- said, only twenty years ago, before a committee of lar twist and a particular dye for the fringe of the House of Commons, that he despaired of ever bro~vn parasols. It is desired that there should be applying power-looms to silk. This was because a claret tint on this fringe when seen against the so much time e as employed in handling and trim- light; and here, accordingly, we fimid the claret oting the silk, that the steam power must he largely ttnt. The silk is somewhat dull, from being hard wasted. So thought the weavers, in the days twisted; it is to be made more lustrous by stretch- whemi the silk was given out in banks or bobbins, tog, and we accompany it to the stretching ma- and woven at home, or when the work was done chine. There it is suspended on a barrel and by hand-loom weavers in the factorycalled the movable pin; by a mans weight applied to a loom-shop. The day was at hand, however, when wheel, the pin is drawmt down, the hank stretches, that should be done of which the Macclesfield and comes out two or more inches longer than it gentleman despaired. A small factory was set up went in, amid looking perceptibly brighter. A in Coventry, by way of experiment, in the misc of hank of bad silk snaps under this strain; a twist steam power, in 1831. It was burned down during that will stand it is improved by it. a quarrel about wagesnobody knows how or by Looking into a little apartment, as we return whom. The weavers declared it was mint their through the yard, we find a man engaged in work doing; but their enmity to steam power was strong which the daintiest lady might long to take out of enough to restrain the employers from the use of his hands. He is making pattern-cards and books. it. It was not till everybody sa~v that Coventry He arranges the shades of all sorts of charming was losing its manufactureparting with it to colors, named after a hmtmmdred pretty flowers, fruits, places which moade ribbons by steamthat the and other natural productionshis lemons, laven- manufacturers felt themselves able to do what must ders, corn flowers, jonquils, cherries, fawns, pearls, be done, if they were to save their trade. The and so forth; takes a pinch of each floss, knots it state of things now is very significant. About in the middle, spreads it at the ends, pastes down seventy houses in Coventry make ribbons and trim- these ends, and, when he has a row complete, mings, (fringes and the like.) Of these, four make covers the pasted part with slips of paper so fringes and trimmings, and no ribbons; and six ot numbered as that each number stands opposite its eight make both. Say that fifty-eight houses own shade of color. A pattern-book is as good as make ribbons alone. lt is believed that tbrea - II -iye RAINBOW MAKING. fourths of the ribbons are made by no more than twenty houses out of these fifty-eight. There are now thirty steam power-loom factw7ies in Coventry, producing about seven thousand pieees of ribbons in the week, and employing about three thousand persons. It seems not to be ascertained how large a proportion of the population are employed in the ribbon manufacture; butthe increase is great since the year 1838, when the number was about eight thousand, without reckoning the outlying plaees, which would add about three thousand to the num- ber. The total population of the city was found, last March, to amount to nearly thirty-seven thou- sand. So, if we reckon the numbers employed in connexion with the throwing-mill and dye-houses, we shall ~ee what an ascendency the ribbon manu- facture has in Coventry. At the factory we are entering, the preparatory proceases are going forward at the top and the bottom of the building. In the yard is the boiler lire, which sets the engine to work; and, from the same yard, we enter workshops, where the ma- chinery is made and repaired. The ponderous work of the men at the forge and anvils contrasts curiously with the delicacy of the fabric which is to be produced by the agency of these masses of iron and steel. Passing up a step-ladder, we find ourselves in a long room, where turners are at work, making the wooden apparatus required, piercing the compass boards, for the threads to pass through, and displaying to us many ingenious forms of polished wood. While the apparatus is thus preparing below, the material of the manufac- ture is getting arranged, four stories over-head. There, under a skylight, women and girls are winding the silk from the banks, upon the spools, for the shuttles. Here we see, again, the clouded silk, which is to make plaid ribbons, and the bright hues which delighted our eyes at the dye- ing-house. This is easy workmany of the wo- men sitting at their reels; and the air is pure and cool. The great shaft from the engine, passing through the midst of the building, carries off the dust, and affords excellent ventilation. Besides this, the whole edifice is crowned by an observa- tory, with windows all round; and no complete ceilings shut off the air b tween this chamber and the rooms of two stories below. In clear weather, there is a fine view from this pinnacle, extending from the house, gardens, and orchard of the Messrs. Hamerton below, over the spires of Coventry, to a wide range of country beyond. Descending from the long room, where the winding is going on, we find ourselves in an apart- ment which it does one good to he io. It is fur- nished with long narrow tables, and benches, put there for the sake of the work-people, who may like to have their tea at the factory, in peace and quiet. They can have hot water, and make them- selves comfortable here. Against the door hangs a list of books, read, or to he read, by the people; and a very good list it is. Prints, from Raffaciles Bible, plainly framed, are on the walls. In the middle of the room, on, and beside, a table, are four men and boys preparing the strapping of a Jacquard loom for work. The cords, so called, are woven at Shrewsbury. We next enter a room where a young man is engaged in the magical work of reading in from the draught. The draught is the pattern of the intended ribbon, drawn and painted upon diced paperlike the patterns for carpets that we saw at Kendal, but a good deal larger, & hough the article to be produced here is so much smaller. The young man sits, as at a loom. Before him hangs the mass of cords he is to tie into pattern, close before his face, like the curtain of a cabinet piano. Upreared before his eyes is his pattern, supported by a slip of wood. He brings the line he has to read in to the edge of this wood, and then, with nimlile fingers, separates the cords, by threes, by sevens, by fives, by twelves, according to the pattern, and threads through thena the string which is to tie them apart. The skill and speed with which he feels out his cords, while his eyes are fixed on his pattern, appear very remarkable; but when we conic to consider, it is not so complicated a process as playing at sight on the piano. The reader has to deal thus with one chapter, or series, or movement, of his pattern. A do capo ensues; in other words, the Jacquard cards are tied together, to begin again; a~id there is a revo- lution of the cards, and a repetition of the pattern, till the piece of ribbon is finished. In the same apartment is the press in which the Jaequard cards are prepared ;just in the way which may be seen wherever silk or carpet weaving, with Jacquard looms, goes forward. All the preparations having been seenthe making of the machinery, the filling of the spools, the drawing and reading in of the pattern, and the tying of the cords or strapping, we ha~e to see the great process of allthe actual weaving. We certainly had no idea how fine a spectacle it might be. Floor above floor is occupied with a long room in each, where the looms are set as close as they can work, on either hand, leaving only a nar- row passage between. it may seem an odd thing to say; but there is a kind of architectural grandeur in these long lofty rooms, where the transverse cords of the looms and their shafts and beams are so uni- form, as to produce that impression that symmetry, on a large scale, always gives. Looking down upon the details, there is plenty of beauty. The light glances upon the glossy colored silks, depend- ing, like a veil,from the backs of the looms, where women and girls are busy piecing the imperfect threads with nimble fingers. There seems to be plenty for one person to do ; for there are thirteen broad ribbons, or a greater number of narrow ones~ woven at once, in a single loom; yet it may some- times be seen that one person can attend the fronts, and another the backs. of two looms. In the front we see the thirteen ribbons getting made. Usually, they are of the same pattern, in difi~rent colors. The shuttles, with their gay little spools, fly to and fro, and the pattern grows, as of its own will. Below is a barrel, on which the woven rbbon is wound. Slowly revolving, it winds off the fabric as it is finished, leaving the shuttles above room ply their work. The variety of ribbons is very great, though in this factory we saw no gauxes, nor, at the time of our visit, any of the extremely rich ribbons which made such a show at the Exhibition. Some had an elegant and complicated pattern, and were woven with two shuttles (called the dotible-betten weaving) which came forward alternately, as the details of the rich flower or leaf required the one or the other. There were satin ribbons, in weav- ing which only one thread in eight is taken up the gloss being given by the silk loop which covers the other seven. On entering, we saw some narrow scarlet satin ribbons, woven for the queen. Won- dering what her majesty could want with ribbon of such a color and quality, we were set at ease by finding that it was not for ladies) but horses. L~ 52 ITTISTORY OF TIlE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. was to dress the heads of the royal horses; There were bride-like, white-figured ribbons, and narrow tlimsy black ones, fit for the wear of the poor widow who strives to get together some mourning for Sundays. There were checked ribbons, of all eolors and all sizes in the check. There were stripes of all varieties of width and hre. There were diced rihbons, and speckled, and frosted. There were edges which may introduce a beautiful harmony of coloring ;as primrose with a lilac dge ;green with a purple edge; rose-color and rown; puce and amber; and so on. The loops f pearl or shell edges are given by the silk being ~ assed round horse-hairs, which are drawn out when the thing is done. There are beltsdouble ribbonswhich have other material than silk in chem; and there are a good many which are plain at one edge, and ornamented at the other. These ave fur trimming dresses. One reason why there are so few gauzes, is that the French beat us there. Jhev grow the kind of silk that is best for that fabric. and lalior is cAhe~p with them; so that any work in which labor bears a large propnrtioa to the material, is particularly ssitable for them. We have spent so much time among the looms, that it is growing dusk is their shadows, though still light enoogli in the counting-house for us to look over the pattern-book, avid admire a great many patterns, most, till we see more. Young omen are weighing rihborrs in large scales; aad a man is measuring off some pieces, by reeling. lie cats off remnants, which he casts into a basket, Where they look so pretty that, ~lest we should be onscious of any shoplifting propensities, we turn away. There is a glare now through the window which separates us from the noisy weaving room. The gas is lighted, and we step in again, just to see the e& i~ct. It is really very thee. The flare of the separate jets is lost behind the screens of silken threads, which veil the hacks of the looms, while the yellow light touches the beams, and gushes upto the high ceiling in a thousand caprices. surely the ribbon manufacture is one of the prettiest iat we have to show. If the Coventry people were asked whether their chief manufacture was in a flourishing state, the most opposite answers would probably be given by different parties equally concerned. Some exult, aged some complain, at this present time. As far as we can make out, the state of things is this. From the low price of provisions, multitudes have something more to spare from their weekly wages than formerly, for the purchase of finery; and the demand for cheap ribbons has increased wonder- fully. As always happens when any manufacture is pvosperous, the operatives engage their whole f-smilies in it. We may see the farmer weaving, his wife, on the verge of her confinement, winding in another room, or, perhaps, standing behind a looni piecing the whole day long. The little girls fill the spools; the boys are weaving somewhere else. The consequences of this devotion of whole households to one business, are as bad here as among the Nottingham lace-makers, or the Leices- ter hosiers. Not only is there the misery before them of the whole family being adrift at once, when bad times come, but they are doing their ut- most to bring on those bad times. Great as is the demand, the production has, thus far, much ex- ceeded it. The soundest capitalists may be heard complaining that theirs is a losing trade. Less substantial capitalists have been obliged to get rid ef some of their stock at any price they could ob 53 tam; and those ribbons, sold at a loss, intercept the sales of the fair-dealing manufacturer. This can- not go on. Prosperous as the working-classes of Coventry have been, for a considerable time, a season of adversity must be within ken, if the cap- italists find the trade a bad one for them. We find the case strongly stated, and supported by facts, in a tract on the census of Coventry, which has lately been published there. It might save a repetition of the misery which the Coventry people brought upon themselves formerlyby their tenacity about protective duties, and their opposition to steam powerif they would, before it is IGo late, ponder the facts of their case, and strive, every man in his way, to yield respect to the natural demand for the great commodity of his city; and to take care that the men of Coventry shall be fit for something else than weaving ribbons. From the Athenaium. Histot-y of tlee An nc a Revolution. By GEORGE BANCROFT. Vol. I. Bentley. MR. BANcItOFT is happier in his choice of themes than in his selection of titles. His three former volumesthough their subject was rich, varied and interestingwere described by a misnomer. They were called a History of the United Statesthough they contained the story of colonies which were not States and which had never been United. The only plea for using such a name formerlythe desire to embrace the whole history of Anglo-Amer- ica under a common designationhas for some reason, or, as the Germans say, unreason, been given up as respects the continuation. Nor is the new title more descriptive than the old. Though labelled a History of the American Revolution, the volume before us does not contain one line about the revolution in the strict sense of the word, and in the true order of time. It commences with a reviewbrief, lucid and suggestiveof the state of affairs in 1748; the narrative is then resumed at the point where the third volume of the former series left it, and is carried oa to 1703. But, as everybody knows, the first stamp act was not passed until 1765the first Congress did not meet until 1774 and the war did not begin until the following year. The change of title is possibly the work of Mr. Bancrofts English publisher; but it is one of thGse changes which more or less involve their wn penalties. Seeing that the present volume rot advertised under the former familiar title, sou~ cf the possessors and admirers of its predecessors, unless set right, might refrain from completing their sets. When Mr. Bentley comes to reprint, we would advise him to restore the old titleand in- stead of calling this volume Vol. I. of a History of the Revolution, to call it, what it really is, Vol. IV. of the History of the United States. The further this work proceeds, the more do we feel that it must take its place as an essentially satisfactory history of the United States. Mr. Ban- croft is thoroughly American in thought and in feeling, without ceasing to have those larger views and nobler sympathies which result from cosmopo- litan rather than from local training. His style is original and national. It breathes of the mountain and the prairieof the great lakes. and the wild savannas of his native land. A strain of wild and forest-like music swells up in almost every line. The story is told richly and vividly. It has hitherto been thought by Americans themselves even more HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. than by Europeans, that the story of the English colonies presented but a dreary and lifeless succes- sion of petty squabbles between the settlers and the crown officersof unintelligible persecutions of each other on the ground of differences of opinion in religion. Mr. Bancroft has shown how ill founded has been this impression. In his hands American history is full of fine effects. Steeped in the colors of his imagination a thousand incidents hitherto thought dull appear animated and pictorial. Between Hildreth and Bancroft the difference is immense. In the treatment of the former, dates, facts, events are duly statedthe criticism is keen, the chronology indisputablebut the figures do not live, the narrative knows no march. The latter is all movement. His men glow with human pur- poseshis story sweeps on with the exulting life of a procession. Yet because Mr. Bancroff contrives to bring out the more romantic aspects of his theme, it is not to be supposed that he fails in that strict regard to truthtruth of character as well as of incident which is the historians first duty, and without which all other qualities are useless. Of all American writers who have written on the history of their own country we would pronounce him to be the most conscientious. His former volumes were remarkable for the amplitude and accuracy of their references. rrhe authorities cited were often re- condite and obscureyet it was evident that they had been sifted carefully and critically. The same may be said of the volume before us. Careful research had enabled Mr. Bancroft to throw new light on several points connected with the settlement and early history of his country. As his dates approach nearer to the present time, the sources of new information open on him in abun- dance. The MS. additions to our knowedge of the times treated of in these volumes are considerable; but they are spread pretty fairly over the entire narrativelending a new light to the events and adding a new trait to the charactersrather than thrown into masses. The effect produced is more that of greater roundness and cumpletio~i than of absolute change in old historical verdicts. We quote one out of innumerable instances of these Iniuute but characteristic additions. The historian is spe~aking of the Duke of Newcastlewhose ignorant government of the colonies was one of the chief sources of their discontent For nearly four-and-twenty years he remained minister for British America; yet to the last, the statesman, who was deeply versed in the statistics of elections, knew little of the continent of which he was the guardian. He addressed letters, it used to be con- fidently said, to the island of New England, and could not tell h.ut that Jamaica was in the Mediter- ranean. Heaps of colonial memorials and letters re- mained unread in his office; and a paper was almost sure of neglect unless some agent remained with him to see it opened. His frivolous nature could never glow with affection, or grasp a great idea, or analyze complex relations. After long research, I cannot find that he ever once attended seriously to an American question, or had a clear conception of one American measure. Walpole had told us that Newcastle did not know where Jamaica was :the amusing address, Island of New England, Mr. Bancroft finds referred to in a manuscript letter of J. Q. Adams. it serves to suggest that what is usually thought to be a joke of Walpoles was probably the Jiteral truth :the man who is sufficiently innocent of geography to make New England an island would have no difficulty in confounding the East and West Indies. In this volume we first meet with the great char- acter who is to be the hero of the revolution now looming before the reader. Mr. Bancroft treats us to no full-length portrait of George Washington instead of a picture, he presents us with the man. Washington comes before us at twenty-onein the chamber of Governor Dinwiddie, of Virginia; from whom he is accepting a perilous but must important missionto cross the forests, rivers, and mountains which separate Williamsburg and Lake Erie, in the depths of a severe winter, and there endeavor to detach the Delaware Indians from the French alliance. All the elements of Washingtons great- nesshis courage, hardihood, military prescience, and merciful dispositionare stamped indelibly on this the first act of his public life In the middle of November, with an interpreter and four attendants, and Christopher Gist as a guide, he left Wills Creek, and following the Indian trace through forest solitudes, gloomy with the fallen leaves and solemn sadness of late autumn, across mountains, rocky ravines, and streams, through sleet and snows, he rode in nine days to the fork of the Ohio. How lonely was the spot, where, so long unheeded of men, the rapid Alleghany met nearly at right angles the deep and still water of the Monongahela! At once Washington foresaw the destiny of the place. I spent some time, said he, in viewing the rivers ; the land in the Fork has the absolute command of both. The fiat, well-timbered land all around the point lies very convenient for building. After creat- ing in imagination a fortress and a city, he and his party swam their horses across the Alleghany, and wrapt their blankets around them for the night, on its north-west bank. From the Fork the chief of the Delawares conducted Washington through rich alluvial fields to the pleasing valley at Logstown. There deserters from Louisiana discoursed of the route from New Orleans to Quebec, by way of the Wabash an the Maumee, and of a detachment from the lower province on its way to meet the French troops from Lake Erie, while Washington held close colloquy with the half-king ; the one anxious to gain the west as a part of the territory of the ancient dominion, the other to preserve it for the red men. We are brothers said the half-king in council ; we are one people I will send back the French speechbelt, and will mak the Shawnees and the Delawares do th same. On the night of the twenty-ninth of November, the coun- cil-fire was kindled ; an aged orator was selected to address the French ; the speech which he was to deliver was debated and rehearsed ; it was agreed that unless the French would heed this third warning to quit the land, the Delawares also would be their enemies; and a very large string of black and white wampum was sent to the Six Nations as a prayer fo aid. After these preparations, the party of Washing- ton, attended by the half-king, and envoys of the Delawares, moved onwards to the post of the French at Venango. The officers there avowed the purpose of taking possession of the Ohio, and they mingled the praises of La Salle with boasts of their forts at Le Bomf and Erie, at Niagara, Toronto, and Frontenac. The English, said they, can raise two men to our one ; but they are too dilatory to prevent any enterprise of ours. The Delawares were intimidated or debauched; but the half-king clung to Washington like a brother, and delivered up his belt as he had promised. The rains of December had swollen the creeks. The messengers could pass them only by felling trees for bridges. Thus they proceeded, now killing a buck and now a bear, delayed by excessive 54 HISTORY O1~ THE AMERICNN REVOLUTION. yams and snows, by mire and swamps, while Wash- ingtons quick eye discerned all the richness of the meadows. At Waterford, the limit of his journey, he found Fort Le Beeuf defended by cannon. Around it stood the barracks of the soldiers, rude log-cabins, roofed with bark. Fifty birch-bark canoes, and one hundred and seventy boats of pine were already pre- pared for the descent of the river, and m tennis were collected for building more. The commander, Gardeur de St. Pierre, an officer of idtegrity and experience, nd for his dauntless o rage both feared and beloved y th Red-Men, refused to disc ss q estions of rinht. I am here, said he, by the orders of my general, o which I shall conform with exactness and resolu- tion. And he avowed his purpose of seizin~ every Englishman withi the Ohio Valley. France was resolved on ssessi g tL grea territory which her nissie ries and travellers h d revealed to the world. Breaking as ay from courtesies, WashinDton hastened Lionmwar to Virgini he rapid current of French Creek dashed his party against rocks; in hallow pla es they wad d, the i ater congealing on their clothes where the i had 1 dged i the bend of the rivers, they carried their canoe across the neck. At Ten~ ngo, they found their horses, but so weak, the ravilers went still on foot, heedless of the storm. Th~ cold increased very fast; the paths grew wor~e y a deep s ow continually freezing. Impatient to ~et back with his despatches, the young envoy, wrap- ping himself in an Indian dr ~s, with ~un in hand and ack e his b ck, the day after Christmas quitted the seal ath, and, with Gist for his sole companion, by id of the compass, steered the nearest way across the countr for the Fork. An Indian, who I ad lain in ~vait for him, fired at him fr m not fteen steps dista ce, but, missing him, became his prisoner. I vould have killed him, x rote Gist, but Washington forbad Dismisj ~ their captve at night, they :ralked a ut half a mile, then kindled a fire, fixed ti-dr course by the compass, and continued travelling nfl ni ~ht, a d all the ext day, till quite dark. Not tiil q en did the weary wanderers think themselves safe ouj to sleep, and they encamped, with no helter but the leafless forest-tree. On reaching the All ghany, with on poor hatchet and a whol days work, a raft was constructed and launched. But, efore they were half over the river, they were caught the running ice, expecting every moment to be crushed, unable reach either shore. Putting out the etting-pole stop the raft, Washington was ~erked into the deep water, an saved himself only by l~ sping at the raft-lobs. They were oblined to niake or an iland. There lay Washington, iinpri oned by ti dome ts; b t ti elate December night was intense- ly cold, and in the morning he found the river frozen. ot till he reached Gists settlement, in January, 1754, were his toils lighte ci his orders. I expected every moment, said one whose eye was on Washington, to see him fall. Nothing but the supenintending care of Providence could have saved him. An Indian chiefI suppose a Shiawneesin6led him out with his rifle, and bade others of his warriors do the same. Two horses were killed under him ; four balls penetrated his coat. Some potent Maniton guards his life, exclaimed the savage. Death, wrote Washington, was levelliun my companions on every side of me ; but, by the all-powerful dispensations of Providence, I have been protected. To the public, said Davis, a le med divine, in the followinn month, I point out that heroic youth, Colonel Washington, whom I cannot but hope Providence has preserved in so signal a m nn r for some important service to his country. Who is Mr. Washington ? asked Lord Halifax a few months later. I know nothing of him, he added, but that they s y he behaved in Braddocks action as bravely as if he really loved the whistling of bullets. Thus opened that career of glory, moderation, and successihus, at the period of nascent man- hood were exhibited the marking traits of that serene and devoted characterwhich have placed the name of Washington on the noblest and loftiest pedestal in the temple of fame. Leaving for a while the only figure in that scene of miserable and savage warfare on which the mind can dwell with any degree of trust and satisfaction, we will move to the north-east of the English set- lements, and follow the story of the unhappy peo- ple of Acadia. Mr. Bancroft has drawn a touching picture of the homely virtues and obscure happiness of this rural population before the interference of the British officers changed their joy into wailing and endowed their simple annals with a dark and tragic interest After repeated conquests and restorations, the treaty of Utrecht conceded Acadia, or Nova Scotia, to Great Britain. Yet the name of Annapolis, the presence of a feeble English garrison, and the emigration of hardly five or six English families, were nearly all that marked the supremacy of England. The old inhabitants remained on the soil which they had subdued, hardly conscious that they had cliaiiged their sovereign. They still loved the language and the usanes of their fore- fathers, and their religion was graven upon their souls. They promised submission to England ; but such was the love with which France had inspired them, they would not fight against its standard or renounce its name. Though conquered, they were French neutrals. For nearly forty years from the peace of Utrecht they had been forgotten or neglected, and had prospered Washington repor ed the state of affairs on the in their seclusion. No tax-gatherer counted their Lakesand active measures were consequently folds no magistrate dwelt in their hamlets. The parish priest made their records and re,,ulated their ~dopted. Of the rapid and brilliant development ~ the disputes were settled among f successions. Ihien lit his military genius, we are not now to trace the themselves, with scarcely an instance of an appeal to pro~res hut it is scarcely possible to read with- En~hish authority at Annapolis. The pastures were out a shudder of the hair-breadth scapes of the covered with their herds and flocks; and dikes, raised youn~ man whose life was of such inestimable con- by extraordinary efforts of social industry, shut out sequen to his country. Thins, in the battle fbught the rivers and the tide from alluyial marshes of ex by Braddockto whom Washington acted as aide- ubemant fertility. The meadows, thus recl~ imed, were (Ic-campagainst the French and Indians in 1755, covered by richest grasses, or fields of wheat, that he appeared to others as well as to himself to hear yielded fifty and thirty fold at the harvest. Their a charmed life, lit this action, says Mr. Bancroft houses were built iii clusters, neatly constructed and comfortably furnished, and arouiid them all kinds of Of eighty-six officers, twenty-six were killed domestic fowls abounded. With the spinning-wheel among them, Sir Peter Halketand thirty-seven were and the loom, their women made, of flax from their wounded, including Gage and other field officers. Of own fields, of fleeces from their own flock, coarse but the men, one half were killed or wounded. Braddock sufficient clothing. Tb e few foreign luxuries that were braved every danger. Ills secretary was shot dead ; coveted could be obt med from Annapolis or Louis- both his English aids were disabled early in the en- burg, in return for furs, or wheat, or cattle. Thus gagement, leaving the American alone to distribute were the Acadians bappy on their neutrality and in 55 HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. the abundance which they drew from their native land. They formed, as it were, one great family. Their morals were of unaffected purity. Love was sanctified and calmed by the universal custom of early marriages. The neighbors of the community would assist. the new couple to raise their cottage, while the wilderness offered land. Their numbers increased, and the ~olony, which had begun only as the trading station of a company, with a monopoly of the fur trade, counted, perhaps, sixteen or seventeen thousand inhabitants. The transfer of this colony from French to Eng- lish rule could not fail to be productive of some untoward results. The native priests feared the introduction among them of heretical opinions the British officers treated the people with insolent contempt. Their papers and records says our historian, were taken from them by their new masters Was their property demanded for the public ser- vice? they were not to be bargained with for the payment. The order may still be read on the Council records at Halifax. They must comply, it was written, without making any terms immedi- ately, or the next courier would bring an order for military execution upon the delinquents. And when they delayed in fetching firewood for their oppressors, it was told them from the governor, If they do not do it in proper time, the soldiers shall absolutely take their houses for fuel. The unoffenci- ing sufferers submitted meekly to the tyranny. Under pretence of fearing that they might rise in behalf of France, or seek shelter in Canada, or convey provis- ions to the French garrisons, they were ordered to surrender their boats and their fire-arms ; and, conscious of innocence, they gave up their barges and their muskets, leaving themselves without the means of flight, and defenceless. Further orders were after- wards given to the English officers, if the Acadians behaved amiss, to punish them at discretion ; if the troops were annoyed, to inflict vengeance on the nearest, whether the guilty one or not taking an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. There is no reason to believe that these atrocious orders were not executed in the spirit in which they had been conceived. But worse remained to come The Acadians cowered before their masters, hoping forbearance ; willing to take an oath of fealty to England ; in their single-mindedness and sincerity, refusing to pledge themselves to bear arms against France. The English were masters of the sea, were undisputed lords of the country, and could exercise clemency without apprehension. Not a whisper gave a warning of their purpose, till it was ripe for execu- tion. But it had been determined upon after the ancient device of Oriental despotism, that the French inhabitants of Acadia should be carried away into captivity to other parts of the British dominions. * * France remembered the descendants of her sons in the hour of their affliction, and asked that they might have time to remove from the peninsula with their cf%cts, leaving their lands to the English ; but the answer of the British minister claimed them as useful subjects, and refused them the liberty of trausmigration. The inhabitants of Mina~ and the adjacent country pleaded with the British officers for the restitution of their boats and their guns, promising fidelity, if they could but retain their liberties, and declaring that not the want of arms, but their con- science, should engage them not to revolt. The memorial, said Lawrence in Council, is highly arrogant, insidious and insulting. The memorialists, at his summons, came submissively to Halifax. You I want your canoes for carrying provisions to the enemy, said he to them, though he knew no enemy was left in their vicinity. Guns are no part of your goods, he continued, as by the laws of Eng- land all Roman Catholics are restrained from having arms, and are subject to penalties if arms are found in their houses. It is not the language of British subjects to talk of terms with the crown, or capitulate about their fidelity and allegiance. What excuse can you make for your presumption in treating this gov- ernment with such indignity as to expound to them the nature of fidelity? Manifest your obedience by immediately taking the oaths of allegiance in the common form before the Council. The deputies replied that they would do as the generality of the inhabitants should determine; and they merely entreated leave to return home and consult the body of their people. The next day, the unhappy men, foreseeing the sorrows that menaced them, offered to swear allegiance unconditioBally. But is was now too late. The savage purpose had been formed. That the cruelty might have no excuse, it happened that while the scheme was under discussion letters arrived leaving no doubt that all the shores of the Bay of Fundy were in the possession of the British. It only remained to be fixed how the exportation should be effected To hunt them into the net was impracticable; arti- fice was therefore resorted to. By a general proclama- tion, on one and the same day, the scarcely conscious victims, both old men and young men, as well as all the lads of ten years of age, were peremptorily ordered to assemble at their respective posts. On the appointed 5th of September, they obeyed. At Grand Pro, for example, 418 unarmed men came together They were marched into the church, and its avenues were closed, when Winslow, the American commander, placed himself in their centre, and spoke : You are convened together to manifest to you His Majestys final resolution to the French inhabitants of this his province. Your lands and tenements, cattle of all kinds, and live stock of all sorts, are forfeited to the crown, and you yourselves are to be removed from this his province. I am, through His Majestys goodness, directed to allow you liberty to carry off your money and househcdd goods, as many as you can, without discommoding the vessels you go in. And he then declared them the kings prisoners. Their wives and families shared their lot; their sons, 527 in number, their daughters, 570 ; in the whole, women and babes and old men and children all included, 1,923 souls. The blow was sudden; they had left home but for the morning, and they never were to return. Their cattle were to stay unfed in the stalls, their fires to die out on their hearths. They had for that first day even no food for themselves or their children, and were compelled to beg for broad. The 10th of September was the day for the embarkation of a part of the exiles. They were drawn up six deep, and the young men, 161 in num- ber, were ordered to march first on board the vessel. They could leave their farms and cottages, the shady rocks on which they had reclined, their herds and their garners; but nature yearned within them, and they would not be separated from their parents. Yet of what avail was the frenzied despair of th~ unarmed youth? They had not one weapon; the bayonet drove them to obey ; and they marched slowly and heavily from the chapel to the shore, between women and children, who, kneeling, prayed for blessings on their heads, they themselves weeping, and praying, and singing hymns. The seniors went next ; the wives and children must wait till other transport vessels arrived. The delay had its horrors. The wretched people left behind were kept together near the sea, without proper food or raiment, or shelter, till other ships came to take them away and 56 HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. December with its appalling cold had struck the shivering, half-clad, broken-hearted sufferers before the last of them were removed. The embarkation of the inhabitants goes on but slowly, wrote Monck- ton, from Fort Cumberland, near which he had burned three hamlets, the most part of the wives of the men we have prisoners are gone off with their chil- dren, in hopes I would not send off their husbands without them. Their hope was vain. Near Annap- olis, a hundred heads of families fled to the woods, and a party was detached on the hunt to bring them in. Our soldiers hate them, wrote an officer on this occasion, and if they can but find a pretext to kill them, they will. Did a prisoner seek to escape? He was shot down by the sentinel. Yet some fled to Quebec; more than 3,000 had withdrawn to Miram- ichi, and the region south of the Ristigouche; some found rest on the banks of the St. Johns and its branches ; some found a lair in their native forests some were charitably sheltered from the English in the wigwams of the savages. But 7,000 of these banished people were driven on board ships, and scattered among the English colonies, from New Hampshire to Georgia alone ; 1,020 to South Caro- lina alone. They were cast ashore without resources hating the poor-house as a shelter for their offspring, and abhorring the thought of selling themselves as laborers. Households, too, were separated: the colonial newspapers contained advertisements of members of families seeking their companions, of sons anxious to reach and relieve their parents, of mothers mourning for their children. The wanderers sighed for their native country; but, to prevent their return, their villages, from Annapolis to the isthmus, were laid waste. Their old homes were but ruins. In the district of Minas, for instance, 250 of their houses, and more than as many barns, were con- sumed. The live stock which belonged to them, con- sisting of great numbers of horned cattle, hogs, sheep, and horses, were seized as spoils and disposed of by the English officials. A beautiful and fertile tract of country was reduced to a solitude. There was none left round the ashes of the cottages of the Acadians but the faithful watch-dog, vainly seeking the hands that fed him. Thickets of forest-trees choked their orchards ; the ocean broke over their neglected dikes, and desolated their meadows. Nor were the woes of~ this ill-treated people ended Relentless misfortune pursued the exiles wherever they fled. Those sent to Georgia, drawn by a love for the spot where they were born as strong as that of the captive Jews, who wept by the side of the rivers of Babylon for their own temple and land, escaped to sea in boats, and went coasting from harbor to ~harbor; but when they had reached New England, just as they would have set sail for their native fields, they were stopped by orders from Nova Scotia. Those who dwelt on the St. Johns were torn once more from their new homes. When Canada sur- rendered, hatred with its worst venom pursued the 1,500 who remained south of the Ristigouche. Once more those who dwelt in Pennsylvania presented a humble petition to the Earl of Loudoun, t.hen the British commander-in-chief in America; and the cold- hearted peer, offended that the prayer was made in French, seized their five principal men, who in their own land had been persons of dignity and substance, and shipped them to England, with the request that they might be kept from ever again becoming trouble- some by being consigned to service as common sailors on board ships of war. And so.it was throughout : We have been true, said they in one of their petitions, to our religion, and true to ourselves; yet nature appe~mrs to consider us only as the objects of public yen- geance. I know not, writes Mr. Bancroft, if the annals of the human race keep the records of wounds so wantonly inflicted, so bitter and so perennial as fell upon the French inhabitants of Acadia. [Second Notice.] AMERICAN history has at least one element of peculiar character. The voyage of the Pilgrim Fatliersthe settlement of the Virginia cavaliers the foundation of Pennsylvaniathough all events of profound moral interest, as well as pro- ductive of fine pictorial effects, are not without parallels more or less close in the varied tale of ancient and modern colonization. But that which is distinctive and peculiar in the story of American civilization is, its struggle against the Red Men. Settlers, it is true, have often found themselves in strange company. in Africa the Greek colonizer elbowed the swarthy Ethiop. In South America the Spaniard stood beside the Peruvian and the Carib. Dutchmen have encountered the Malay and the Dyak. For two centuries English settlers have had to deal with the uncivilized races of the East and Westfrom the Bushmen of the Cape to the savages of New Zealand. But none of these races present the same attractive features as the brethren of the Iroquois and the Mohicans. About these latter there are points of romantic and chivalric interest. Though not free from the vices of the savage, they often exhibit virtues which might shame the European. There is something of dignity in their aspect and bearing. They are seldom without a natural and original poetic senseand their language has a wild, Ossianic music. They are bold in metaphor and apt in natural illustration. A group of actors on the scene, having characteristics so peculiar and so attractive as the Red Skin, is invaluable to an historian whose tendency is to see events and note character under their most pictorial aspects. The part taken by the Indians in that war be- tween the French and English in America, which ended in the conquest of Quebec and the expulsion of the Lilies from Canada, is narrated at great length by Mr. Bancroftand the atrocious nature of the conflict is well brought out. At the com- mencement of the war, we are allowed a glimpse at a curious war-council Brothers, said the Delawares to the Miamis, we desire the English and the Six Nations to put their hands upon your heads and keep the French from hurting you. Stand fast in the chain of friend- ship with the government of Virginia. Brothers, said the Miamis to the English, your country is smooth; your hearts are good ; the dwellings of your governors are like the spring in its bloom. Broth- ers, they added to the Six Nations, holding aloft a calumet ornanmented with feathers, the French and their Indians have struck us, yet we kept this pipe unhurt ; and they gave it to the Six Nations, in token of friendship with them and with their allies. A shell and a string of black wampum were given to signify the unity of heart; and that, though it was darkness to the westward, yet towards the sun-rising it was bright and clear. Another string of black wampum announced that the war-chiefs and braves of the Miamis held the hatchet in their hand, ready to strike the French. The widowed queen of the Piankeshaws sent a belt of black shells intermixed. with white. Brothers, such were her words, I am left a poor, lonely woman, with one son, whom I commend to the English, the Six Nations, the Shaw- nees, and the Delawares, and pray them to take care of him. The Weas produced a calumet. We have 57 HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. had thIs feathered pipe, said they, from the be- ginning of the world ; so that when it becomes cloudy, we can sweep the clouds away. It is dark in the west, yet we sweep all clouds away towards the sun- rising, and leave a clear and serene sky. Thus, on the alluvial lands of Western Ohio, began the contest that was to scatter death broadcast through the world. All the speeches were delivered again to the Deputies of the Nations, represented at Logstown, that they might be correctly repeated to the head council at Onondaga. An express messenger from the Miamis hurried across the mountains, bearing to the shrewd and able Dinwiddie, the Lieutenant-Governor of Virginia, a belt of wampum, the scalp of a French Indian, and a feathered pipe, with letters from the dwellers on the Maumee and on the Wabash. Our good brothers of Virginia, said the former, we must look upon ourselves as lost, if our brothers, the English, do not stand by us and give us arms. Eldest brother, pleaded the Picts and Windaws, this string of wampum assures you, that the French kings servants have spilled our blood, and eaten the flesh of three of our men. Look upon us and pity us, for we are in great distress. Our chiefs have taken up the hatchet ofwar. We have killed and eaten ten of the French and two of their negroes. We are our brothers ; and do not think this is from our mouth only; it is from our very hearts. Thus they olicited protection aadrevenge. The Duke of Newcastle was unequal to the task of driving the sol(liers of France from Canada or from the valley of the Mississippi. The north and south were both in the hands of France. The route of the Ohio and the Mississippi had been discovered by adventurers and missionaries of that nation; and a few years of quiet possession would have allowed French statesmen to consolidate their power in those regions, and to draw a strong cor- don around the entire group of English colonies on the Atlantic seaboard. But Pitts genius was brought to bear at a critical moment on the ar- rangement of this great questionand he con- ceived the project of breaking the Mississippi line and attacking the enemy in their strongholds on the St. Lawrence. Three expeditions were fitted out. Amherst and Wolfe ~vere ordered to join the fleet under Boscawen, destined to act against LouisburgForbes was sent to the Ohio Valley Abererombie was intrusted with the command against Crown Point and Ticonderoga, though Lord Howe was sent out with the last named as the real soul of the enterprise. Mr. Bancroft writes None of the officers won favor like Lord Howe and Wolfe. Both were still young. To high rank and great connections Howe added manliness, humanity, a capacity to discern merit, and judgment to employ it. As he reached America, he entered on the simple austerity of forest warfare. James Wolfe, but thirty- one years old, had already been eighteen years in the army; was at Pettingen and Fontenoy, and had won laurels at Laffeldt. Merit made him at two-and- twenty a lieutenant-colonel, and his active genius improved the discipline of his battalion. He was at once authoritative and humane, severe, yet indefati- gably kind; modest, bilt aspiring and secretly con- scious of ability. The brave soldier dutifully loved and obeyed his widowed mother, and his gentle na- ture saw visions of happiness in scenes of domestic love, even while he kindled at the prospect of glory, as gunpowder at fire. On the 28th of May the expedition reached Hal- ifax: For six days after the British forces, on their way from Halifax to Louisburg, had entered Chapean Rouge Bay, the surf, under a high wind, made the rugged shore inaccessible, and gave the French time to strengthen and extend their lines. The sea still dashed heavily, when, before daybreak on the 8th of June, the troops, under cover of a random fire from the frigates, attempted disembarking. Wolfe, the third brigadier, who led the first division, would not allow a gun to be fired, cheered on the rowers, and, on coming to shoal water, jumped into the sea ; and, in spite of the surf, which broke several boats and upset more, in spite of the well directed fire of the French, in spite of their breastwork and rampart of felled trees, whose interwoven branches made one continued wall of green, the English landed, took the batteries, drove in the French, and on the same day invested Louisburg. At that landing, none was more gallant than young Richard Montgomery; just one-and-twenty; Irish by birth; an humble officer in Wolfes brigade ; but also a servant of humanity, enlisted in its corps of immortals. The sagacity of Wolfe honored him with well-deserved praise, and promotion to a licutenancy. On the morning of the 12th, an hour before dawn, Wolfe, with light infantry and Highianders, took by surprise the li~,hthouse battery on the north-east side of the entrance to the harbor ; the smaller works were successively carried. On the 23d, the English battery began to play cii that of the French on the island near the centre of the mouth of the harbor. Science, sufficient force, union among the officers, heroism, pervading mar- iners and soldiers, ct~rried forward the siege during which Barre by his conduct secured the approbation of Amherst and the confirmed friendship of Wolfe. Of the French ships in the port, three were burned on the 21st of July; in the night following the 25th, the boats of the squadron, with small loss, set fire to the Prudent, a seventy-four, and carried off the Bien- faisant. Boscawen was prepared to send six English ships into the harbor. But the town of Louisburg was already a heap of ruins ; for eight days the French officers and men had had no safe place for rest ; of fifty-two cannon opposed to the English batteries, forty were disabled. The French had but five ships of the line and four frigates. It was time for the Chevalier de Drucour to capitulate. The garrison became prisoners of war, and, with the sailors and marines, in all 5,637, were sent to Eng- land. On the 27th of July, the English took posses- sion of Louishurg, and, as a consequence, of Cape Breton and Prince Edwards Island. Thus fell the power of France on our eastern coast. Halifax being the English naval station, Lonisburg was deserted. The harbor still offers shelter from storms ; the coast repels the surge ; but a few hovels only mark the spot which so much treasure was lavished to fortify, so much heroism to conquer. Wolfe, whose heart was in England, returned home with the love i1nd esteem of the army. His country was full of exultation the trophies were deposited with pomp in the cathe- dral of St. Pauls ; the churches gave thanks; Bos- cawen, himself a member of Parliament, was honored by a unanimous tribute from the House of Commons. New England, too, triumphed ; for the praises awarded to Amherst and Wolfe recalled the heroism of her own Sons. This success inspired Pitt to still greater efforts. He resolved to annex the boundless north, as it was then called, to the British empire in America; and early in the spring Wolfe again went out this time to conquer Quebec and find a soldiers grave. Many of his compai~ions in arms were then and afterwards famous men Jervis, afterwards the renowned Earl St. Vincent, James Cook, the navi- gator, George Towushend, Barre, Color~l Howe. On the 26th of June, the whole armament arrived, without the least accident, off the Isle of Orleans, on 58 HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. which, the next d~ y, they disembarked. A little south of west the cliff of Quebec was seen distinctly, seemingly impregnable, rising precipitously in the midst of one of the grandest scenes in nature. To protect this guardian citadel of New France, Mont- calm had of regular troops no more than six wasted battalions ; of Indian warriors few appeared, the wary savages preferring the security of neutrals the Canadian militia gave him the superiority in numbers ; but he put his chief confidence in the natural strength of the country. Above Quebec, the high promontory on which the upper town is built, expands into an elevated plain, having towards the river the steepest acclivities. For nine miles or more above the city, as far as Cape Rouge, every landing- place was intrenched and protected. The river St. Charles, after meandering through a fertile valley, sweeps the rocky base of the town which it covers by expanding into sedgy marshes. Nine miles below Quebec, the impetuous Montmorenci, after fretting itself a whirlpool route, and leaping for miles down the steps of a rocky bed, rushes with velocity towards the ledge, over which, fishing two hundred and fifty feet, it pours its fleecy cataract into the chasm. As Wolfe disembarked on the Isle of Orleans, what scene could be more imposing? On his left lay at anchor the fleet with the numerous transports ; the tents of his army stretched across the island ; the intrenched troops of France, having their centre nt the village of Beauport, extended from the Montmorenci to the St. Charles; the city of Quebec, garrisoned by five battalions bounded the horizon. At midnight, on the 28th, the short darkness was lighted up by a fleet of fire-stiips, that, after a furious storm of wind, came down with the tide in the proper direction. But the British sailors grappled with them and towed them free of the shipping. The river was Wolfes ; the men-of-war made itso ; and, being master of the deep water, he also had the superiority on the south shore of the St. Lawrence. In the night of the 29th, Monckton, with four battalions, having crossed the south channel, occupied Point Levi ; and where the mighty current, which below the town expands as a bay, narrows to a deep stream of but a mile in width, batteries of mortars and cannon were constructed. The citizens of Quebec, foreseeing the ruin of their houses, volunteered to pass over the river and destroy the works ; but, at the trial, their courage failed them, and they retreated. The English, by the dis- charge of red-hot balls and shells, set on fire fifty houses in a night, demolished the lower town, and injured the upper. But the citadel was beyond their reach, and every avenue~ from the river to the cliff was too strongly intrenched for an assault. The summer was going rapidly, and as yet no real progress had been made. Wolfe was eager for actionand he pursued his researches into the nature of the formidable position with extraordi- nary eagerness He saw that the eastern bank of the Montmorenci was higher than the ground occupied by Montcalm, and, on the 9th of July, he crossed the north channel and encamped there; but the armies and their chiefs were still divided by the river precipitating itself down its rocky way in huipassable eddies and rapids. Three miles in the interior, a ford was found ; but the opposite bank was steep, woody, and well intrenched. Not a spot on the line of the Montmorenci for miles into the interior, nor on the St. Lawrence to Quebec, was left unprotected by the vigilance of the inacces- sible Montcalm. The gbneral proceeded to recon- noitre the shore above the town. In concert with Saunders, on the 18th of July, he sailed along the well-defended bank from Montmorenci to the St. Charles ; lie passed the deep and spacious harbor, which, at four hundred miles from the sea, can shelter a hundred ships of the line ; he neared the high cliff of Cape Diamond, towering like a bastion over the waters, and surmounted by the banner of the Bourbons ; he coasted along the craggy wall of rock that extends beyond the citadel ; he marked the outline of the precipitous hill that forms the north bank of the riverand everywhere he beheld a natu- ral fastness, vigilantly defended, intrenchments, can- non, boats, and floating batteries guarding every access. Ilad a detachment landed between the city and Cape Rouge, it would have encountered the danger of being cut off before it could receive sup- port. He would have risked a landing at St. Michaels Cove, three miles above the city, but the enemy pre- vented him by planting artillery nnd a mortar to play upon the shipping. Meantime, at midnight, on the 28th of July, the French sent down a raft of fire- stages, consisting of nearly a hundred pieces ; but these, like the fire-ships a month before, did but light up the river, without injuring the British fleet. Scarcely a day passed but there were skirmishes of the English with the Indians and Canadians, who were sure to tread stealthily in the footsteps of every exploring party. Wolfe returned to Montmorenci. July was almost gone, and he had made no effective advances. He resolved on an engagement. The Montmorenci, after falling over a perpendicular rock, flows for three hundred yards, amidst clouds of spray and rainbow glories, in a gentle stream to the St. Lawrence. Near the junction, the river may, for a few hours of the tide, be passed on foot. It was planned that two brigades should ford the Moatmo- rend at the proper time of the tide, while Moncktons regiments should cross the St. Lawrence in boats front Point Levi. The signal was made, but some of the boats grounded on a ledge of rocks that runs out into the river. While the seamen were getting them off, and the enemy were firing a vast number of shot and shells, Wolfe, with some of the navy officers as com- panions, selected a landing-place ; and his desperate courage thought it not yet too late to begin the attack. Thirteen companies of grenadiers, and two hundred of the second battalion of the Royal Ameri- cans, who got first on shore, not waiting for support, ran hastily towards the intrenchments, and were repulsed in such distrder that they could not again come into li,ne; though Moncktons regiment had arrived, and had formed with the coolness of invinci- ble valor. But hours hurried by; night was near the clouds of midsummer gathered heavily, as if for a storm ; the tide rose ; and Wolfe, wiser than Frederic at Cohn, ordered a timely retreat. In this unsuccessful attempt Wolfe lost 400 men. On the tortures of a body wasted by fever and a mind preyed on by its own restless energy, we will not dwell. Wolfe reckoned on assistance from the corps of Amherst.but this did not arrive. At last he perceived that his fate rested in his own hands aloneand he conceived the daring plan of attack which has given to his name the soldiers immortality. We extract Mr. Bancrofts account of the brilliant attack which cost our young hero his life and the French their dominions in Northern America Every officer knew his appointed duty, when, at one oclock in the morning of the 13th September, Wolfe, with Monckton and Murray, and about half the forces, set off in boats, and, without sail or oars, glided down with the tide. In three-quarters of an hour the ships followed, and, though the night had become dark, aided by the rapid current, they reached the cove just in time to cover the landing.. Wolfe and the troops with him leaped on shore ; the light infan- try, who found themselves borne by the current a little below the intrenched path, clambered up the steep hill, staying themselves by the roots and boughs ,of the maple and spruce and ash trees that covered 59 00 MICHAEL FARADAY.SIGNATURE OF WILLIAM HARVEY. the precipitous declivity, and, after a little firing, I die happy. These were his words as his spirit dispersed the picket which guarded the height. The escaped in the blaze of his glory. Night, silence, thc~ rest ascended safely by the pathway. A battery of rushing tide, veteran discipline, the sure inspiration four guns on the left was abandoned to Colonel Howe. of genius, had been his allies; his battle-field, high When Townshends division disembarked, the Eng~ over the ocean-river, was the grandest theatre on lish had already gained one of the roads to Quebec, earth for illustrious deeds ; his victory, one of the and, advancing in front of the forest, Wolfe stood at most momentous in the annals of mankind, gave to daybreak with his invincible battalions on the plains the English tongue and the institutions of the Ger- of Abraham, the battle-field of empire. It can be manic race the unexplored and seemingly infinite but a small party come to burn a few houses and West and North. He crowded into a few hours actions retire, said Montcalm, in amazement, as the news that would have given lustre to length of life ; and, reached him in his intrenchments the other side of filling his day with greatness, completed it before its the St. Charles ; bat, obtaining better information noon. Then, he cried, they have at last got to the In that terrible action fell also the hope of weak side of this miserable garrison ; we must give New France. In attempting to rally a body of battle and crush them before mid-day. And before ten, the two armies, equal in numbers, each being fugitive Canadians in a copse near St. Johns Gate, composed of less than five thousand men, were ranged Montcalm was mortally wounded. in presence of one another for battle. The English, We have quoted enough from this volume to not easily accessible from intervening shallow ravines show how varied and stirring are the subjects with and rail fences, were all regulars, perfect in disci- which Mr. Bancroft here deals. We must not phine, terrible in their fearless enthusiasm, thrilling leave it without remarking on the long interval with pride at their mornings success, commanded by which he allows to pass between the several publi- a man whom they obeyed with confidence aiid love. cations of his History (if the United States. The doomed and devoted Montcalm had what Wolfe had called but five weak French battalions, of less Micwum FARADAY, Englands most eminent chem- than two thousand men, mingled with disorderly ist, was born in 1794, the son of a poor blacksmith. peasantry, formed on ground which commanded the He was early apprenticed to one Ribeau, a bookbinder, position ef the English. The French had three little in Blandford street, and worked at the craft until he pieces of artillery, the English one or two. The two was twenty-two years of age. Whilst an apprentice, armies cannonaded each other for nearly an hour ; his master called the attention of one of his customers when Montcalm, having summoned Bougainville to (Mr. Dance, of Manchester street) to an electrical his aid, and despatched messenger after messenger machine and other things which the young man had for De Vaudreuil, who had fifteen hundred men at made; and Mr. Dance, who was one of the old mem- the camp, to come up, before he should be driven hers of the Royal Institution, took him to hear the from the ground, endeavored to flank the British and four last lectures which Sir Humphrey Davy gave crowd them down the high bank of the river. Wolfe there as professor. Faraday attended, and, seating counteracted the movement by detaching Townshend himself in the gallery, took notes of the lectures, and with Amhersts regiment, and afterwards a part of at a future time sent his manuscript to Davy, with a the Royal Americans, who formed on the left with a short and modest account of himself, and a request, double front. Waiting no longer for m ore troops, if it were possible, for scientific employment in the Montcalm led the French army impetuously to the habors of the laboratory. Davy, struck with the attack. The ill-disciplined companies broke by their clearness and accuracy of the memoranda, and con- precipitation and the unevenness of the ground; and fiding in the talents and perseverance of the writer, fired by platoons, without umilty. The English, offered him, upon the occurrence of a vacancy in the especially the forty-third and forty-seventh, where laboratory in the beginning of 1818, the post of as- Monckton stood, received the shock with calmness ; sistant, which he accepted. At the end of the year and after having, at Wohfes command, reserved their he accompanied Davy and his lady over thie continent fire till their enemy was within forty yards, their line as secretary and assistant, and in 1815 returned to began a regular, rapid, and exact discharge of mus- his duties in the laboratory, and ultimately became ketry. Montcalm was present everywhere, braving Fullerian Professor. Mr. Faradays researches and danger, wounded, but cheering by his example. The discoveries have raised him to the highest rank second in command, Dc Sennezergues, an associate among European philosophers, while his high faculty in glory at Ticonderoga, was killed. The brave but of expounding to a general audience the result of re- untried Canadians, flinching from a hot fire in the condite investigations makes him one of the most open field, began to waver; and, so soon as Wolfe, attractive lecturers of the age. Tie has selected the placing himself at the head of the twenty-eighth and most difficult and perplexing departments of physical the Louisburg grenadiers, charged with bayonets, science, the investigation of the reciprocal relations they everywhere gave way. Of the English officers, of heat, light, magnetism, and electricity ; and by Carleton was wounded; Barre, who fought near many years of patient and profound study has con- Wolfe, received in the head a ball which destroyed tributed greatly to simplify our ideas on these sub- the power of vision of one eye, and ultimately made jects. It is the hope of this philosopher that should him blind. Wolfe, also, as he led the charge, was life and health be spared he will be able to show that wounded in the wrist, but still pressing forward, he the imponderable agencies just mentioned are so received a second ball ; and, having decided the day, many manifestations of one and the same force. Mr. was struck a third time, and mortally, in the breast. Faradays great achievements are recognized by the Support me, he cried to an officer near him; let learned societies of every country in Europe, and the not my brave fellows see me drop. He was carried University of Oxford in 1832 did itself the honor of to the rear, and they brought him water to quench enrolling him among her Doctors of Laws. In private his thirst. They run, they run, spoke the officer life he is beloved for the simplicity and truthfulness on whom he leaned. Who run ? asked Wolfe, as of his character, and the kindliness of hmi.~ disposition. his life was fast ebbing. The French, replied the Alec of the Time. officer, give way everywhere. What, cried _______________________________ the expiring hero, do they run already? Go, one TIlE very rare signature of William Harvey, the of you, to Colonel Burton ; bid him march Webbs discoverer of the circulation of the blood, was sold regiment with all speed to Charles River to cut off the last week for 41. The name was attached to a bill of fugitives. Four days before, he had looked forward medicines for the household of King Charles the First. to early death with dismay. Now, God be praised, ./Itimeaaium. 61 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. From the Book of Ballads. CAROLINE. LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine! Easy, breezy Caroline! With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine! Thou in chains of love hast bound me Wherefore dost thou flit around me, Laughter-loving Caroline? When I fain would go to sleep In my easy chair, Wherefore on my slumbers creep Wherefore start me from repose, Tickling of my hooked nose, Pulling of my hair? Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, So to words of anger move me, Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline? When a sudden sound I hear, Much my nervous system suffers, Shaking through and through Cousin Caroline, I fear, T was no other, now, but you Put gunpowder in the snuffers, Springing such a mine! Yes, it was your tricksy self, 5,~Ticked tricked little elf, Naughty cousin Caroline! Pins she sticks into my shoulder, Places needles in my chair, And, when I begin to scold her, Tosses back her combed hair, With so saucy-vexed an air, That the pitying beholder Cannot brook that I should scold her: Then again she comes, and bolder, Blacks anew this face of mine, Artful cousin Caroline Would she only say she d love me, Winsome tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess t would move me, Teasing, pleasing, cousin mine. That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer tray, Tickle still my hooked nose, Startle me from calm repose With her petty persecution; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion; Would she only say she d love me, Darning-needles should not move me; But reclining back, I d say, Dearest! there s the snuffer tray Pinch, 0 pinch those legs of mine! Cork me, cousin Caroline ! From the Episcopal Recorder. THE LINGERING WINTER. isv is. T. cONHAD. lie that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.Psalm cxxvi. 6. THE snow flakes kiss the ploughmans crimsoned face; He guides the share and turns the furrow still With manly patience and with measured pace, Nor heeds the Winter lingering on the hill. The foamy flood roars, sullen, through the vale; The crow-flock~ flap the blast with laboring wings; The bare oak shivers in the northern gale But on its topmost bough the blue-bird sings. It sings of Springthe ploughman bears the song Of bridal April and of blooming May: And, as he treads with sturdy step along, Hope, in his bosom, sings the self-same lay. He hears the Summer rustling in his corn Cloud chases cloud across his bending grain The mowers scythe-song greets the golden morn The soft eve welcomes home the loaded wain. And Autumns wealth, its pleasures and its pride, His heart with joy, his ear with music, fill His plough he follows with a quicker stride Nor heeds the Winter lingering on the hill Thus, to the Christian,wheresoeer he roam, Planting the Orient, Afric or the isles, Or the frost-fettered fields, alas, of home, A promised harvest mid the Winter smiles. Spring coy and cold, the laborers faint and few; The hard, rough glebe unyielding to the share; The shrill blast shrieks the leafless forest through; But, from on high, a voice dispels despair. Before him, the redeemedChrists harveststand And hosts with hymns of praise his bosom thrill His plough he seizes with a strengthened hand; Nor heeds the Winter lingering on the hill! LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. PART XIII. Mettez las deux chameleons ensemble Celuy dEgypte, et celul dArabie; On tin vera difference en leur vie, Mesme en couleur inn lantre ne ressemble, Says the quatrain with which the portrait of the chameleon* is enriched in the Portraits d Oyseaux, Animaux, & rpens, Herbes, Arbres, Hommes et Fxnmes, observez par P. Belon du Mans, and the record is true. Of this curious form of the lacer- * The ancients wrote of an herb of the same name which grew among the rocks on the sea-shore, and changed the color of its flowers thrice a day. tine race there are several species, and every year many arrive in this country to linger out an unnatural existence of a few weeks. In a state (if freedom, and in its natural haunts, the chameleon would seem to be a very different being from the torpid invalid seen here in confine- ment. Hasselquist speaks almost rapturously of it, calling it an elegant creature. He tells us that it is frequently found in the neighborhood of Smyrna, particularly near the village Sedizeud. There he describes it as climbing the trees, and running among the, stones. The people of the LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. country told him that it lived in hollow trees. Hasseiquist was not an eye-witness of this habit; but often saw it climb on the branches of the olive, plane, and other trees. He had seen the chame- leon of Egypt; but observes that it is less than the Asiatic, and is not often met with. When Hasseiquist made all the inquiry he could concerning the nature of the animal, in a place where it was so frequently found; the inhabitants told him that it would assume the color of a piece of cloth, or other painted or colored substance, which might he put before it. Some assured him that it lived only on air, hut others told him that they had seen it catching a sort of very small flies. When the hypocritical king inquires, How fares our ~ousin Hamlet l the Prince of Den- mark replies, Excellent, i faith, of the came- lions dish; I eate the ayre promise-crammd, you cannot feed capons so. These qualities, of changing color and living on air, have been attrihuted to it from the earliest times. The first is well-founded; the last fabu- lous, hut the fable has been fortified by the power possessed by the reptile of living in apparently good health for a long timemany weekswith- out visibly taking any sustenance. In the stomach of one dissected by Hasselquist, he found the remains of various insects, tipulas, coccinell , and butterflies; and in its droppings, he found part of an entire ear of barley, which he characterizes justly as very singular.* He kept one alive for a considerable time, and applied him- self to observations on its habits. He could never see that it assumed the color of any painted object presented to its view, though he made many experiments with all kinds of colors, on different thingsflowers, cloth, paintings, & c. Its natural color was iron-gray, or black mixed with a little gray. This it sometimes changed, and became entirely of a brimstone yellow. That was the color which he saw it most frequently assume, with the exception of the hue first men- tioned. He had seen it change to a darker yellow, approaching somewhat to a green, sometimes to a lighter; at which time it was more inclined to a white than a yellow. He did not observe that it assumed any more colors; such as red, blue, pur- ple, & c. ; and, for that reason, was inclined to believe that all which has beeti said concerning the changing and shifting of colors in this animal, consisted only in this, that on cert.ain occasions it changes the dark color, which seems to be natural to it, into yellow of various shades. He observed that his reptile more particularly did it on two occasions; one was, when Ito exposed it to the hot beams of the sun ; and the other,when he made it angry by pointing at it with his finger. When it was changing from black to yellow, the soles of its feet, its head, and the bag under its throat began first to alteran alteration which * The presence of the grain may be accounted for by the presence of an insect on it, when the chameleon, with the tip of its dhesive tougne, may have brou~ht away the 0rain with its natural prey. was afterwards continued over the whole body. lie saw it several titnes speckled, or marked with large spots of both colots over the whole body, which gave it art elegant appearanc~. When it was of an iron-gray color, it extended its sides or ribs and hypochondria, which made the skin sit close to the body, and it appeared plump and handsome; but as soon as it turned yellow, it contracted those parts, appearing thin, empty, lean, and ugly ; and the nearer it approached in color to white, the etnptier and uglier it seemed ; but it appeared worse, in regard to shape, when it was speckled. Hasselquist kept this creature alive from the 8th of March to the 1st of April, without afford- ing it an opportunity of taking any food. This is much to be regretted, because, in its native climate, there can be little doubt that, from its vivacity, it would have fed freely, and the powers of absti- nence of the animal had been tested again and again. Notwithstanding its fast, it was nimble and lively during the greater part of the time, climbing up and down in its cage, fond of being near the light, and constantly rolling its eyes. At last Hasselquist could plainly perceive that the victim waxed lean and suffered from hunger; but the Swede was obdurate, though he saw that it could no longer hold fast by the bars of its cage, from which it fell through weakness, when a turtle, a t1sirs~ probably, which was kept in the same room, bit it, and hastened its death. Before I came to the resolution induced bythe death of poor Binny, my tame heaver, a friend gave me a living chameleon, which remained with me nearly two months. It was winter, and every precaution was adopted to make the poor reptile as comfortable as possible. It lived in a wicker cage, to the bars of which it clung with feet and tail; but, after it had been with me a few days, it would leave the cage and establish itself on the ornamental work of the iron fender before the fire. Soon it began to recognize me, surveying me with a knowing roll of its singular optics, opened in the centre of the shagreen-like globes of the eyes. It then would leave the bars of the cage for my hand, the warmth of which seemed to comfort it, and would remain in it till I transferred it to the warm fender, which was its favorite post~ Cling- ing with its feet and tail, with one eye directed backwards towards me, and with the other for- wards, scanning the fire as if it were looking for the faces of other chameleons in it, the creature would remain motionless for hours enjoying the genial tem- perature. During the whole time it was with me it never took any nourishment, thotigh meal-worms and other insects were produced for it. When they were presented it would roll its eye and bring it to hear upon them; but neither Mrs. M., the good old housekeeper. who was o fond of Binny, nor myself, ever saw it take one, nor was one ever missed from among those presented to it. rho housekeeper was at her ~vits end what to do for it, till at last she became pacified, fully believ- ing that it fed upon air ; for, notwithstanding its 62 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. abstinence, it did not apparently fall away. But it was distressing to watch its strict fast day after day, and yet day after day I hoped this long fast would be broken, and did not like to abanThn it. I was the more anxious to get it to feed, because it was full of eggs in the progress of development, which must have made great demands on its con- stitution, and I had frequently seen chameleons take insects freely; of which more anon. One facetious friend would never call it anything but Martha Taylor, in memory, I suppose, of the fast- ing w oman of Derbyshire, who, in consequence of a blow on the back, fell into such a prostration of appetite, that she took hardly any sustenance but some drops with a feather, from Christmas 1667, for thirteen months, sleeping but little all the time. After laying a large number of apparently perfect eggs, my chameleon died; and Mrs. M. announced the event to me as a happy release. Le Bruyn, in his Voyage to the Levant, declares that the chameleons which he kept in his apart- ment at Smyrna lived on air, adding, however, that they died one after another in a short time. Sonnini, who saw several of them at the entrance of the c~itacombs at Alexandria, wishing to satisfy himself to what point they could subsist without food, employed every precaution to prevent their having any, leaving them, however, exposed to the open air. They lived under these conditions tbr twenty days, but soon began to dwindle. When they were first caught they were plump, hut they suon became very thin. They gradually lost their agility and their colors with their goud condition their skins became livid anfl wrinkled, and adhered close to the bone; so that, to use his own expression, they had the appearance of being dried before they ceased to exist. rrhe apparent good condition of my chameleon may have been due to its good plight when I received it; most oviparous animals at the time when the eggs are in the early process of formation, being well fed and filled, as we see in the case of fish. As the eggs are developed the system is drained, till, at last, when they are fully formed, the fish is nearly worthless as food, all its goodness having gone ifltO the roe. In the case of ins~tsthe silk moth ,~ for exampleno sustenance is taken after the xvorm has woven the shroud, from whose cerements it is to burst forth made perfect. The irnogo has every Ign of a well-filled system, till, in obedience to the great law of nature, the eggs are laid, and the parents, having finished the work which they were appointed to perform, die with- out having any support save that which they derive from the sun and air. The power of abstinence, even in those warm-blooded animals whose food is not always ready for them, the carnivora, for instance, is very great; and in the reptiles gener- lly most remarkable. The belief that the chame- leon fed on air only was general amongst the ancients. The mode in which it gulps the air for respiration favored this notion. * Phclanma mon. Chameleon hiat, ut tenni depascitur aura, Reciprocumque soti per sata carpit iter. Indicat ac varios semper mutatque colores, Mutat hians faciem, mutat hians chiamydem. Candidaque induitur nunqtiam, nec rubra supellex, Seinper hiat zephyros, semper hiat stimulus. And long before these lines were written the amorous Roman* bad celebrated the adrial diet and mutability of the creature. Id quoque quod ventis animal nutritur et aura Protinus assimilat tetigit quoscunque colores. Red and white were supposed to be the colors which it could never assume, as indicated in the first lines above printed. The former color no one has recorded as visible upon the chameleons skin throughout; but the latter has been mentioned both in prose and poetry. A yin nobilissimus fide di gnus related to Aldrovand, that he wrapped up one which had been presented to him in a white handkerchief, and when he arrived at home pro- ceeded to open it, in order to examine the animal, but could see nothing but the handkerchief. At last he detected the chameleon, which had so completely acquired the whiteness of the wrapper as to be invisible. The gentlemen who nearly lost their temper in disputing about the color of one of these reptiles were all put in the wrong by him who Producd the beast, and lo! t was white. My experience supports the conclusions of Sonnini and Mime Edwards as~to the mutability of color. When the chameleon kept by me first came into my possession, and was comparatively vigorous, substances of various colors were placed near it without its ever altering its hue according- ly, as far as I could perceive. It would roll its eye and bring it to bear on the object, and some- times the tints of the skin would vary, but not in unison with the adjacent color. When it was clinging to the dark bronze-work of the fender, enjoying the heat of the fire, I sometimes thought that its hue became more sombre; but this effect was by no means constant. Gray, Isabella color, and pale yellow, with the spots or granules vary- ing into green, grayish or blackish, were the prevailing changes; but I never saw it white. I have seen it of a whitey-browim color; and such was its prevailing hue in its latter days, and at its death. The French academicians seem to have come to the conclusion that the sun was a principal agent in such changes. They describe the color of the eminences of their chameleon, when it was at rest in the shade and had remained a long time undisturbed, as of a bluish gray, except under the feet, where it was white inclining to yellow, and the intervals of the granules of the skin were of a pale and yellowish red. This changed when the animal was in the sun; and all the parts of its body which were illuminated altered from their bluish color to a brownish gray inclining to tawny. The rest of the skin, which was not illuminated by the sun, changed from gray into several lively shining colors, forming spots about ~ illetaoi. lib. xv. 63 64 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. half a fingers breadth, reaching from the crest of 1 passions of the creature. lie holds that, when a the spine to the middle of the back; and others healthy chameleon is provoked, the circulation is appeared on the ribs, forelegs, and tail. All the accelerated, the vessels spread over the skin dis- spots were of an Isabella color, through the mix- tende~, and so a superficial blue-green color is ture of a pale yellow, with which the granules produced; but when the animal is shut up, deprived were tinged, and of a bright red, which was the of free air and impoverished, the circulation be- color of the skin that was visible between the granules; the rest of the skin not in the suns light, and which was of a paler gray than ordina- ry, resembled a cloth made of mixed wool, some of the granules being greenish, others of a tawny gray, and others of the usual bluish gray, the ground remaining as before. When the sun ceased to shine, the original gray appeared again by degrees, and spread itself all over the body, except under the feet, which continued nearly of the same color, but rather browner. When, in this state of color, it was handled by strangers, several blackish spots about the size of a finger- nail appeareda change which did not take place when it was handled by those who usually took care of it. Sometimes it was marked with brown spots which inclined towards green. It was wrapped in a linen cloth, and, after two or three minutes, was taken out whitish, but not so white as that which the vir nobilissirnus above alluded to subjected to a similar experiment. Theirs, which had only changed its ordinary gray into a paler gray, after baying retained that color some time, lost it gradually. This experiment made them question the truth of the allegation that the cha- meleon takes all colors but white, as Theophras- tus and Plutarch report; for theirs seemed to have such a disposition to retain this color that it grew pale every night, and when dead it showed more white than any other color. Nor did they find that it changed color all over the body, as Aristotle reports ; for, according to their experi- ence, when the animal takes other colors than gray, and disguises itself to appear in masquerade, as Alllian pleasantly observes, it covers only cer- tain parts of the body with them. They, finally, laid their chameleon on substances of various colors, and wrapped it up in them; but it did not take those colors as it had taken the white, and, indeed, they allow that it only took the white the first time the experiment was made, though it was repeated several times and on different days. Hasselquists experiments with regard to the mutability of color were followed by nearly the same consequences as mine ; but he thought that the changes depended on a sort of disease, a kind of jauntlice, to which the animal was subject, particularly when it was irritated. The blood, in the opinion of M. dObsonville, was the cause of the change. That fluid, accord- ing to him, is, in the chameleon, of a violet blue, which color, he says, it will retain on linen or paper for some minutes, if it be previously steeped in a solution of alum. The coats of the blood- vessels he found to be yellow, both in their main trunks and ramifications, and he comes to the conclusion that green will be the product. Like Hasselquist, he attributes the change of color to the comes sluggish, the vessels are not well filled, and the languid chameleon changes to a yellow-green, which continues during its imprisonment. Others, the late Sir John Barrow for instance, have observed that, previous to a change, the chameleon makes a long inspiration, when the body is inflated so as to appear twice its usual size, and, as the inflation subsides, the change of color is gradually manifested, the only permanent marks being two small dark lines along the sides; and it has been argued, from this description, that the reptile owes its varied tints to the influence of oxygen. Mr. Houston is also of opinion that the change depends on the state of turgescency of the skin; and Mr. Spittal regards it as connected with respiration and the state of the lungs. Theories upon theories, as varied as the tints which they profess to explain, have been broached to account for these changes; but, without dwelling longer upon them, let us turn to the solution of M. Milut Edwards, who, in an elaborate paper published in the Annales des Sciences Naturelles for January, 1834, came to the conclusion that the color of chameleons does not depend essentially on the greater or les~ inflation or expansion of their bodies, or the changes which might thence take place in the circulation or condition of the blood; nor on the distance between the several tubercles or granules of the skin; but, at the same time, he does not deny that those circumstances may prob- ably exercise some influence. He shows that there exist in the skin of these reptiles two layers of membranous pigment, one above the other, but so disposed as to appear simultaneously under the cuticle, and sometimes in such a manner that the one may be hidden by the other; and he insists that everything remarkable in the changes of the chameleons color may be explained by the ap- pearance of the pigment of the lower layer to an extent more uor less considerable in the midst of the pigment of the upper layer, or by its disap- pearance beneath that layer. That these displace- ments of the lower pigment do actually occur he proves, and he derives from those facts the proba- ble consequence that the chameleons color changes, not only during life, but that it may vary after death. He also observes, that there is a close analogy between the mechanism which causes the changes of color in these lacertians and that which governs the appearance and disappearance of eol- ored spots in the mantles of several of the cephal- opods or cuttles. So long ago as July, 1819, Signor Giosi~ Sangiovanni read to the Royal Academy of Sci- ences at Naples his able and interesting paper, intituled Descrizione di un particolaa-e Sistema di Organi, e de Fenomeni ek esso produce; scovertc~ ne Molluschi Cefalopodi, in which h& deseribe4 tho LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. 8tructure and properties of the colorific stratum of the skin of the cephalopoda, upon which the observations of M. Mime Edwards are in a great measure based. Professor Owen quotes it in his admirable article Cephalopoda, in the Cyclo- pa3dia of Anatomy and Physiology; and, as this part of the organization of those mollusks is the key to the changes of color in the chameleon, hose who are interested in th~ subject may like to aee a brief account of the mechanism by which the changes are effected in the marine animals. The epidermis of the cephalopods generally forms a thick, white, semi-transparent, elastic, external layer, which is easily detached by macer- ation. Professor Owen remarks, that the color- ific stratum of tbe integument forms, both in its Stii$cture and vital phenomena, one of the most curious and interesting parts of the organization of this singular class of animals, and that the nature of this layer, when thoroughly understood, may be expected to elucidate the mysterious opera- tions of light in producing and affecting the colors of animals. This stratum, which is analogous to the rete mucosum which gives color, or com- plexion, as it is termed, to man, consists, he observes, of a very lax and fine vascular and nervous cellular tissue, containing an immense number of small closed vesicles, which vary in relative sizes in different species. These vesicles are of a flattened oval or circular form, and con- tain a fluid in which a denser coloring matter is 8uspended. The color is not always identical in all the vesicles, but, in general, corresponds more or less closely with the tint of the secretion of the ink-bag with which this race is furnished as a protection; for, as is known to all who have observed their habits, their first act when surprised is to eject this inky fluid, succus nigree loliginis, that tJ~ey may escape under cloud of the discolored water. In the common cuttle, Sepia, besides the vesicles which correspond to the ink in the color of their contents, there is another series of an ochre color. In the common pen-and-ink fish, Loligo vulgaris, there are three sorts of colored resides, yellow, rose-red, and brown. In Loligo sagittata there are four kindssaffron, red, black- ish, and bluish. The paper Nautilus, Argonauta Argo, possesses vesicles of all colors, which have been observed in other cephalopods, and hence the variety and change of color which its skin presents when exposed to the light. The rest of this in- teresting organization will be best conveyed in the professors own words These vesicles have no visible communication either with the vascular or the nervous systems, or with each other; yet they exhibit during the life- time of the animal, and long after death, rapid. alternating contractions and expansions. If, when the animal is in a state of repose, and the vesicles are contracted and invisible, the skin be slightly touched, the colored vesicles show themselves, and in an instant, or sometimes with a more gradual motion, the color will be accumulated like a cloud or a l)lush upon the irritated surface. If a portion of the skiu be removed from the body and immersed ccecxii. LIVING AGE. VOL. xxxiii. 5 65 in sea-water, the lively contractions of the vesicles continue; when Viewed in this state under the microscope by means of transmitted light, the edges of the vesicles are seen well defined, and to pass in their dilatations and contractions over or under one another. If the separated portion of integu- ment be placed in the dark, and examined after a lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, all motion has ceased; but the vesicles, when re~xposed to a moderately strong light, soon, in obedience to that stimulus, recommence their motions. As the vibra- tile microscopic cilia have been recently traced through the higher classes of the animal kingdom, it is not an unreasonable conjecture that equally inexplicable motions of the coloring parts of the integument may also be detected in other classes than that in which we have just described them, and thus a clue may be obtained towards the expla- nation of the influence of geographical position on the prevailing colors of the animal kingdom. This is a most seducing and interesting subject, well worthy of consideration and further experi- ment; but at present we must return to our chameleons. Just see how admirably the adapta~ tion is carried on throughout. The free font, formed in some of the other lacertians for running nimbly over the sand or through the herbage, with the aid of the dispo~ition of the other limb bones,. is here changed into an organ essentially~prehensile. The two wrist-bones, which are next tothose of the forearm, are articulated upon one central piece, which receives the five bones thatoorrespond to the metacarpal. Three of these are for~the anterior toes, and two for the posterior; and~the.whole five finger bones are bundled up in the integunaents to the claws, three in the fore bundle andtwo in the hind bundle. forming a most efficient clioging instrument when applied to the branch of~a,tree. The toes of thou, hinder extremities are disposed in the same opp os- able manner. The creature in its natural ~~tate, planted firmly among the foliage, and holding tenaciously on by its feet and tail, varying its color at pleasure in. the chequered lightand shade, looks more like an excrescence of the tree than an animated being ;~ and woe to the luckless insect that, deceived: by appearances, ventures within reach of its s~nerring tongue! For, though tho shortness of its neck and its enormous. occiput for-.- bid it to turn. its head, which it can no more ~ than a carp or a codfish, the sweep of: its vision is very great. Take up a chameleons, skull, and observe, how large a space is occupied by the orbits. In these capacious receptacles ample room is afforded for the large globe and the m les which are to direct it. The pupil looks like an ani- mated gem set in shagreen, and this versatile gibbe i5 capable of the most varied and extensive direc- tion. This, as worthy Dr. Goddard says,.she turneth backward or any way, without moving her * The Tarandus of Pliny will occur to those of our readers who are conversant with his wonderful maga- zine, where the heast is described as being as big as an ox, and when he pleaseth, assuming dee color of an ass. But this is a small sample 6f his rersatility, for he reflects the colors of all shrubs, trees, flowers and of the place where he lies, and lsidlngh.imself from fear, he is on that account very rarely takea.~---- Nat. Hist. viii. 34. LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. head; and ordinarily the one a contrary or quite different way from the other. But (as another old writer observes) what is most extraordinary in this motion is to see one of the eyes move whilst the other remains immovahle; and the one to turn forward, at the same time that the other looketh behind; the one to look up to the sky, when the other is fixed on the ground. And these motions to be so extreme, that they do carry the pupilla under the crest which makes the eye- brow, and so far into the canthi, or corners of the eyes, that the sight can discern whatever is done just behind it, and directly before, without turning the head, which is fastened to the shoulders. The vermiform tongue of the woodpecker is known. to most who have shot one, and the same organ is the principal agent by which the chame- leon takes its prey. Like that of the woodpecker, the tongue of the chameleon can be protruded to a considerable length. In the reptile, this organ is projected in a cylindrical and apparently erectile state from the sheath at the lower pari of the mouth, where it remains when at rest, to the length of half-a-foot, and returns with a fly or other insect adhering to its glutinous tip, when the prey is secured within the teeth, which have no true roots, their trilobated crowns appearing to he soldered upon the edge of the upper part of a groove hollowed in the maxillary bone, and looking like an enamelled and denticulated finish to that edge. I have frequently seen chameleons take their food, although I never could succeed in inducing my own to break its fast. When one of them is about to feed, it rolls its shagreen eyeball till the pupil is brought to hear upon the intended victim. Motionless and patient, the reptile waits till the insect arrives within distance. Then the exten- sile tongue is protruded with unfailing aim pre- cisely to the extent required, and is retracted with the prey. I have seen them take mealworms frequently. When two mealworms were placed before a chameleon, one on one side and one on the other, at different distances, the eye of each side was levelled at the adjacent insect; and, though the eyes ~vere necessarily looking in dif- fbrent directions, the tongue did its duty upon both, ene after the other, when they came within reach. The motion of extension and retraction was not very rapid, but it must be remembered that those seen b~r me were in confinement in this country. So extraordinary a shape was not likely to be passed over hy the ancients without attributes as odd as the animal itself; and Democritus seems to have revelled in the marvellous qualities possessed by its several parts. Thus, we are told that this ~rnarkable tongue, pulled out of the head whilss the charnaAeon is quicke, promiseth good successe in judiciall trialsin compliment, doubtless, to :the lawyers, who Can with ease Change words and meanings as they please, hut are as unerring as the chameleons organ in securing the substantial part of the litigation. There is not a creature in the world thought more fearefull than it; which is the reason of that mutability wherehy it turneth into such varielie of colors; howheit of exceeding great power against all the sortes of hawkes or birds of prey; for, by report, let them fly and soar never so high over the chamieleon, there is an attractive vertue that will fetch them downe, so as they shall fall upon the chamieleon, and yeeld themselves willingly as a prey to he tome, mangled, and devoured by other beasts. Pliny, who quotes the Greek, goes on to in- form us that the same iDemocritus Telleth us a tale, that if one burne the head and throat of the chammeleon in a fire made of oken wood, there will immediately arise ~tempests of rainy stormes and thunder together ; and the liver will do as much (saith he) if it burne upon the tiles of an house. As for all the other vertues which the said author ascribeth to the chamaileon, be- cause they smell of witchcraft, and I hold them meere lies, I will overpasse them all, unlesse they be some few for which he deserveth well to be laughed at, and would indeed be reproved by no other means better. And yet the critic, in his eighth book, gravely informs us, that the raven, when he bath killed the chammeleon, and yet perceiving that he is hurt and poisoned by him, flieth for remedy to the laurell, and with it represseth and extinguisheth the venom that he is infected withall. Others relate that if a crow tasted the flesh of the reptile he was a gone crow. Nevertheless, it is recorded that the inhabitants of Cochin China find them good meatby a pro- cess of cookery, however, somewhat similar to that directed by Mizald, when he instructs his scholars how to roast and eat a goose alive, and, after dwelling upon every particular of the diabolical process, winds up by declaring that it is mighty pleasant to behold! The hapless chameleons were brought, we are told, to the Cochin Chinese market tied together in a string. The purchasers took them home, made a fine clear fire, unbound their chameleons, and then put them into the burning fiery furnace, where they at first endeavored to walk on the glowing coals, but overcome with agony fell down, were well broiled, taken out, their skins pulled off, and their care candidissima minced fine, stewed in butter, and served up; idque epularum genus apud ipsos in lautissimis c is commendatur. IJde was but a plagiarist in the matter of eels, after all. It may be worth knowing in these days of semi-Thuggism, which throw those of the Mo- hocks into the shade, that the right forefoot of a chamaileon hanged fast to the left arm within the skin of a hyuna, is singular against the perils and dangers by thieves and robbers; as also to skar away hobgoblins and night spirits. In like manner, whosoever carry about them the right pap of this beast, may bee assured against al fright and feare. Talk of fernseed for invisihilityDemoc- ritus will tell you that the left foote they use t torrifie in an oven with the herb called also cha 66 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. m~leon, and with some convenient ointment or liquor to make in certain trosches, whereof if a man do carry any in a box of wood about him he shall go invisible. In case of invasion, it is satisfactory to know that whosoever bath about him the right shoulder of the chamreleon, shall bee able to overthrow his adversarie at the barre, and to vanquish his enemie in the field ; and we recommend this hint to Sir Francis Head for his second edition; but remem- her that, first, hee must be sure to cast away and make riddance of the strings and sinews be- longing thereto, and to tread them under foot. In the ancient phartnacopeia, the chameleon was a perfect repertory of remedies. Take the ashes, quoth Democritus, of the left thigh or foot, chuse you whether, incorporate the same with the milke of a sow, and therewith annoint the feet, it wil be an occasion speedily to bring the gout upon them. Doctors differed then, as they do now, for the learned Trallianus prepared from it a most certain medicine for driving the gout away. But however this may be, of the cham~leons gall, for the most part, folk are in manner verily persuaded, that it will rid the pin and web, the cataract also of the eies, with three daies anointing; chase away serpents if it be dropped into the fire; gather all wezils in a country to- gether, only by throwing it into the water; and fetch off haire if the body be anointed therewith. The catalogue might be extended voluminously; but these few prescriptions will suffice for those who are not anxious to p~e~rate into the depths of the sanitary and other mysteries of Democritus and Co. That zoologists should have considered this form as isolated, aberrant as it appears to be from the general lacertian structure, cannot be matter of surprise. It seems to stand alone; but if we closely examine its organization, we shall find that the apparent isolation is merely a modification of different parts adapted to the wants of the ani- mal, and that the sessile chamadeon is as much a lizard as the nimble Lacerta agilis that vanishes from the suirbeam wherein it is basking before the dazzYed eye of the intruder has well made out its colors. The form of the extremities throughout the tribe is exactly fitted to the condition to which it has pleased the Great Disposer to call them, and these conditions we find gradually altered, now dwindling,* now the front pair vanishing,~ then the posterior pair obliterated with the front pair tolerably developed,~ till, at last, the whole of the extremities disappear; and, in the innocent but much-persecuted blind-worm,~ we have a lizard in an entirely serpentine form. * Chama~saura. t Bipes. ~ Chirotes. Anguis fragilis. I have frequently seen this in- nocuous animal put to death as the most poisonous of serpents. The answer to my remonstrances has been that I knew nothing about it; an adder was bad enough, but this was an asker, with more poison in him than all the rest put together. No one that he bites ever recovers. This last assertion was not far from the truth; for the harmless creature never bites except what it eatsinsects and worms. Nature is inexhaustible. The wizard conquered the indefatigable demon who split Eildon Hills in three in one night, by tasking him to make ropes of sea-sand. According to the usual natural instruments of progression, the task of endowing a creature with rapid motion on the ground without external feet or wings seems hardly less hopeless. Those who have seen a snake rapidly vanish among the herbage, or climb the side of a dry ditch, and escape among the thorns of the hedge, will allow that the task has been most efficiently performed. And howl There is a great deal of geometrical neatness an~ nicety in the sinuous motion of snakes and other serpents, (says good Mr. Derham, canon of Wind- sor, and rector of IJpminster, in Essex;) for the assisting in which action, the annular scales under their body are very remarkable, lying cross the belly, contrary to what tnose in the back and the rest of the body do; also, as the edges of the fore- most scales lie over the edges of tI~eir following scales; so as that when each scale is drawn back, or set a little upright by its muscle, the outer edge thereof, (or foot, it may be called,) is raised also a little from the body, to lay hold on the earth, and so promote and facilitate the serpents motion~ This is what may be easily seen in the slough of the belly of the serpent kind. But there is another admirable piece of mechanism, that my antipathy to those animals bath prevented my prying into; arid that is, that every scale bath a distinct muscle, one end of which is tacked to the middle of its scale; the other, to the upper edge of its following scale. This, Dr. Tyson found in the rattle-snake, and I doubt not is in the whole tribe. Certainly; and Tyson and others, who either had not the Rev. W. Derhams antipathy or con- quered it, did not stop at externals, but went a little deeper into the matter. Blasius remarks that the knots of the vertebr~e of the viper are shorter towards the head, and hence that reptile can easily bend itself both back- wards and sideways. Tyson observes, in his Anatomy of the Rattlesnake, when treating of the vertebrre and the other curious articulations, that the round ball in the lower part of the upper ver- tebrre enters a socket of the upper part of the lower vertebru, like as the head of the osfemo- ris doth the acetabulum of the os isckii; by which contrivance, as also the articulation with one an- other, they have that free motion of winding their bodies any way.~~ In the skeleton of the largest python in the museum of the Royal College of Surgeons of England, which measures sixteen feet six inches in length, there are three hundred and forty-eight vertebrre. Of these two hundred and seventy-nine support free or movable ribs, the rest are caudal ver- tebrre. When the serpent begins to advance, the ribs of the opposite sides are drawn apart f~~rg each other, and the small cartilages at the end of them are bent upon the upper surfaces of the abdominal scuta, on which the ends of the ribs rest. The ribs move in pairs, and the scute under each pair is necessarily carried along with it. The saute lays hold of the 67 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE~BOOK OF A NATURALIST. ground by its posterior edge, and becomes a fixed point for renewed progression. Sir Everard Home, who gives this description of the serpents motion, remarks that it is beautifully seen in climbing over an angle to get upon a flat surface; and so it is. Nor will the observer find many species, not even excepting the pythons and boas, in which it is very well seen, where this subcu- ticular multipedous mode of going through the world is more visibly manifested than in the puff adders.* But Sir Everard justly says, that the large abdominal scuta of the boa may be considered as hoofs or shoes, best fitted for this kind of pro- gressive motion. Sir Everard further shows that there are five sets of muscles which bring the ribs forward. One set goes from the transverse process of each vertebra to the rib immediately behind it, which rib is attached to the next vertebra. The next set starts from the rib a littte way from the spine, just where the former terminates, passes over two ribs, sending a slip to each, and is inserted into the third; a slip also connects it with the next succeeding muscle. Under this comes the third set arising from the posterior side of each rib, and passes over two ribs, sending a lateral slip to the next muscle, being inserted into the third rib behind it. The fourth set passes from one rib over the next. The fifth set goes from rib to rib. Within, the apparatus is not less beautifully adjusted. On the inside of the chest a strong set of muscles is attached to the anterior surface of each vertebra, and passes obliquely forwards over four ribs, to be inserted nearly in the middle of the fifth. Then comes from each rib a strong flat muscle advancing on each side before the viscera, to form the abdominal muscles, and unites in a middle tendon. Thus, the lower half of each rib, which is beyond the origin of this muscle, and only laterally connected to it by loose cellular membrane, is external to the belly of the animal, and is employed for the purposc of progression; while the half of each rib next the spine, as far as the lungs extend, is made ancillary to respiration. At the termination of each rib is a small cartilage, corresponding in shape to the rib, and tapering to the point. The cartilages of the opposite ribs are not connected, so that when the ribs are drawn outwards by the muscles, they are separated, and rest their whole length on the inner surface of the abdominal scutes, to which they are connected by a set of short muscles, and they have also a con- nexion with the cartilages of the neighboring ribs by means of a set of short straight muscles. Endowed with this apparatus, the serpent, when moving, is altered in shape, from a circular or oval form to one approaching a triangular figure, the surface on the ground forming the base. Bat before Sir Everard entered into this inquiry, Sir Joseph Banks, with that insdr& etive acuteness which belonged to him, had rema*ed, as he watched a snake moving briskly along tbs carpet, tb~,t ke tbeught he saw the ribs come farwa.~tl, in # ~l$4~, ZTh~. succession, like the feet of a caterpillar. This remark led Sir Everard t6 examine the reptiles motion with more attention. He put his hand under the serpents belly, and while the snake was in the act of passing over his palm, he dis- tinctly felt the ends of the ribs pressing upon it, in regular succession, so as to leave no doubt on his mind that the ribs, forming so many pairs of levers, were the instruments by which the animal moved its body from place to place. Those who have crippled a common snake or a viper with a blow of a stick have seen how easily this beautiful machinery may be mutilated and rendered useless. When his nurse, by way of preventing her charge from straying into a copse, told him that snakes were there, the young Lion of the North said, Then give me a switch, that I may go in and kill theta all. The larger and con- stricting serpents are protected by the great mass of muscle from dislocation or injury of the spine by such a sudden stroke, but even they are com- pelled to relax their folds by a superior force. As Mr. Gordon Cumming was examining the spoor of the game by a South African fountain, he suddenly detected an enormous old reck-snake stealing in beneath a mass of rock beside him, not quite so large, perhaps, as that exhibited in the time of Augustus at Rome, and which Suetonius tells us was fifty cubits in length; but still a ser- pent of very formidable dimensions. He was (says the hunter) truly an enormous snake; and having never before dealt with this species of game, I did not exactly know how to set about capturing him. Being very anxious to pre- serve the skin entire, and not wishing to have re- course to my rifle, I cut a stout and tough stick, about eight feet long, and having lightened myself of my shooting-belt, I commenced the attack. Seiz- ing him by the tail, I tried to get him out of his place of refuge; but I hauled in vain. He only drew his large folds firmer together; I could not move him. At length I got a rheim round one of his folds, about the middle of his body, and Klein- boy and I commenced hauling away in good earnest. The snake, finding the ground too hot for him, re- laxed his coils, and suddenly bringing round his head to the front he sprang out at us like an arrow, with his immense and hideous month opened to its largest dimensions, and, before I could get out of his way, he was clean out of his hole, and made a second spring, throwing himself forward about eight or ten feet, and snapping his horrid fangs within a foot of my naked legs. Very fortunate for Mr. Cumming it was that the serpent did not succeed in fastesiag on him; if it had done so, he would most undoubtedly have been encircled in its deadly embrace. Once with. in the constricting folds, Kleinboy would hardly have succeeded in extricating him alive, and we might never have seen one of the most stirring books published of late years. Our Nitarod, however, sprang out of his way, and getting hold of the green bough he had cut, he returned to the charge The snake now glided along at top speed; he knew the ground well, and was making for a mass 68 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. of broken rocks, where he would have been beyond my reach, but before he could gain this place of refuge I caught him two or three tremendous whacks on the head. Tile, however, held on, and gained a pool of muddy water, which he was rapidly crossing, when I again belabored him, and at length reduced his pace to a stand. We then hanged him by the neck to a bough of a tree, and in about fifteen minutes he seemed dead, but he again became very troublesome during the operation of skinning, twist- ing his body in all manner of ways. This serpent measured fourteen feet. There is no amount of torture that manaye, and woman too, will not inflict on an animal that does not cry out. If the eels, which the fish-wife or the cook skins with so much unconcern, could express their agonies audibly, nothing would in- duce either of those delicate females to continue the horrible and merciless operation; but the eels are mute, and suffer accordingly. Two works of art, ancient and modern, rise before us; one in all the simplicity and purity of marble; the other glowing with all the enchant- ment of color. In the one, the agonized priest of Apollo and his hapless children vainly struggle in the folds of the serpents Laocoonta petunt: et primum parva duorum Corpora natorum serpens amplexus uterque Implicat, e t miseros morsu depascitur artus. Post ipsum au~ilio suben#itezn ac tela fereutem Corripiunt, spirisque ligant ingentibus; et jam Bis medium amplexi. bis collo squamea circum lerga dati superant capite et cervicibus altis. TIle simul manibus tendit divellere nodos, Perfusos sanie vittas atroque veneno; Clamores simul horrendos ad sidera tollit. In that marvellous group, All made out of the carvers brain, the serpents are so represented, that the spectator feels that there is no hope for the victims. The very opposite of it appears in the subject made musical by the exquisite Doric reed of Theocritus, and brought in all its grandeur before the eye by the bold and beautiful pencil of our own Reynolds. In the idyll of the Greek,~ opening with one of the most charming material scenes and good nights ever presented to the imagination, the serpents are made to relax their folds when the spines of their barks waxed weary under the killing grasp of the Infant Hercules; and in the British picture you see at once that they are dying, overcome by the vigor of the son o( Jupiter. But as long as the locomotive machinery is in good order, the sinuous, graceful windings of the serpent, joined to the bright hues with which the skin of the majority of the species is enamelled, make it a pleasing object to those who can over- come the natural antipathy felt by so many at their presence, and incline them to sympathize with the Indian girl Stay, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake, Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake; But let me oft thy form review, ~ H~exA,oxe~. EA~,A2ov ,uY. H~axA4r chx~uipov uoTe.x. v. A. 69 Thy sparkling eyes and golden hue; From thence a chaplet shall be wove To grace the youth I dearest love. Then, ages hence, when thou no more Shalt glide along the sunny shore, Thy copied beauties shall be seen; Thy vermeil red and living green In mimic folds thou shalt display; Stay, lovely, fearful adder stay! To be sure, poets, as well as doctors, differ; and Coleridge, in that singularly wild and beau- tiful poem, tells us that A snakes small eye blinks dull and sly. And dull it is sometimes, but only before moultiug, for the skin of the cornea comes off with the rest of the slough. When the serpent comes out in its new coat, with its bright eye and elegant action. it is as different from its former self as Talley- rand in solitary dishabille was from Talleyrand dressed in a brilliant assembly, through whose crowded mazes he would wind his way, his very lameness lending grace to his gently undulating progress. Those who define a serpent as an apod, or foot- less animal, carry their definition too far. The large constricting serpents, and not only those, but eryx and tortrix, are furnished with the rudi- ments of hinder extremities, which appear to have escaped the notice of Sir Everard Home, but did not escape that of Dr. Mayer. Observing the spur, or nail, on each side of the vent in the boi& e, the doctor examined further, and found it to be a true nail, in the cavity of which is a little semi-cartilaginous bone, ungual phalanx, articu.~ lated with another much better developed bone, which is concealed under the skin. This second bone of the rudimentary foot pxesented an external thick condyle, with which the ungual phalanx wa~ articulated, and was furnished besides with a smaller internal apophysis. Proceeding in his investigation, he laid bare a rudimentary tibia with its muscles, and made out a complete pos- terior limb, such as it was, the foot being furnished with its abductor and adductor mnscles. Upon these elements he founded his Pha2nopoda, a family of Ophidians, having the rudiments of a foot visible externally, containing the genera boa, python, eryx, and tortrix. The author of the article Boa, in the Penny Cyclopaulia, where the details of this curious dis.. covery are given, observes, that no one can read of the habits of these reptiles in a state of nature without perceiving the advantage which they gain, when, holding on by their tails on a tree, their heads and bodies in ambush, and half-floating owi some sedgy river, they surprise the thirsty animal that seeks the stream. These hooks help the serpent to maintain a fixed point; they become a fulcrum, which gives a double power to his energies. We need not go to the Valley of Diamonds with Sinbad to find enormous serpents. The companions of other sailors have been swallowed up by those monstrous reptiles, as was too clearly proved to the crew of the Malay proa, who an- LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. ehored for the night close to the island of Celebes. One of the party went on shore to look for betel- nut, and, on returning from his search, stretched his wearied limbs to rest on the beach, where he fell asleep, as his companions believed. They were roused in the middle of the night by his screams, and hurried on shore to his assistance. But they came too late. A monstrous snake had crushed him to death. All they could do was to wreak their vengeance on his destroyer, whose head they cut off, and bore it with the body of their shipmate to their vessel. The marks of the teeth of the serpent, which was about thirty feet in length, were impressed on the dead mans right wrist, and the disfigured corpse showed that it had been crushed by constriction round the head, neck, breast, and thigh. When the snakes jaws were extended, they admitted a body the size of a mans head. By great Apollos arm the python slain, Oer many a rood lay stretchd upon the plain. Latonas son did his work with the graceful ease of a divinityoh, that the work of Leontius* had bern spared to us !but the mortals who were opposed by the enormous python near Utica had a very different task to perform Well knowne it is that Attilius Regulus, generall under the Romans during the wars against the Carthaginians, assailed a serpent near the river Bagrada,~ which carried in length 120 foot; and before he could conquer him was driven to discharge upon him arrows, quarrels, stones, bullets, and such- like shot, out of brakes, slings, and other engines of artillery, as if he had given assault to some strong warlike towne; the proofe whereof was to be seen by the marks remaining in his skin and chawes, Which, until the war of Numantia, remained in a temple or conspicuous place of Rome. But, though vanquished, the monster had his revenge; for his huge carrion and corrupt gore so polluted the air and waters that his conquerors were obliged to move their camp, not, however, without taking his skin with them as spolia opima. General Peter Both made a better thing of it with a great Indian python, for he and his friends feasted a magnificent wild boar, which the enemy had pouched just before its defeat rtnd deuth.~ The African or Asiatic pythons may have been in the eye of the sculptor of the Laoco~in, but the models may have existed nearer home, for that * This famous imageur, as Philemon Holland calls him, who expressed lively in brasse, executed, among other bronzes, one Apollo playing upon his harpe; as also another Apollo, and the serpent killed with his arrowes, which image he surnamed Dicuns, i. e., just; for that when the city of Thebes was won by Alexander the Great, the gold which he hid in the bosome thereof when hee fled, was found there safe and not diminished, when the enemy was gone and he returned. t Some write Bagradas and Magradas (Me- jerda). t Bontius. Regulus was not the only great captain who had to encounter other than human enemies. It was, no doubt, very smart to say, Philip fought nien, but Alexander women, we see in Italy other serpents named bon, so big and huge, that in the daies of the Emperor Clan- dius, there was one of them killed in the Vaticane, within the belly whereof there was found an infant all whole. ~ Europe is separate from Africa by no very wide gulf It is a narrow strait, You can see the blue hills over; and the character of some of the vegetation of the south reminds the observer of that of Africa. But to see the true bon in their native forests we must cross the Atlantic; and those who are not familiar with the story may have no objection to learn how Captain Stedman fared in an encounter with one twenty-two feet and some inches in length, during his residence in Surinam. whatever injustice there may have been in a sarcasm so dearly paid for; but, without standing up for the bravery of the men he conquered on their own soil men who fought valiantly pro arts et focis, Philips son, according to Vincentius, was sorely beset by monsters as well as men. To say nothing of the Hippodami, which rushed upon and devoured his troops as they were passing the Indian river, when, in indignation at those who had led his Macedonians into such peril without proper precautions, he ordered a hundred and fifty of his generals to be thrown into the stream, where the hippodami aforesaid did execu- tion upon themjusta peana c{ffeceruntto say nothing of that episode, his soldiers had other horrors to con- front. His camp was pitched near a lake, and the weary Greeks were reposing after the heavy fatigues of the day, when, at the rising of the moon, down came an army of scorpions for their accustomed night- draught. They were followed by a host of cerastes and other serpents, of all sizes and colors, some red, some black, some white, and others glittering like gold. The whole country resounded with their hiss- ings. The aifrighted soldiers threw themselves in- stinctively into the serried phalanx, and with their spears and shields crushed and pierced the invaders, and the light troops plied them with fire. After a fight of about two hours, some of the reptiles were killed, some got their drink, and the survivors, to the joy of the troops, departed to their hiding-places. Then, up to the third hour of the night, the garrison had a little rest, when down came immense serpents, as long and as big as columns, with two or three heads apiece. With these the Macedonians fought for more than an hournot by Shrewsbury clockand routed them, but not without the loss of thirty slaves and twenty soldiers. After the departure of the ser- pents appeared enormous crabs, with shells like crocodiles. Many of these were burnt, but many fought their way into the lake. The harassed troops now began to hopo that their troubles were, for the present, ended, w en own came white lions as big as bulls, great boars, lynxes, tigers, and horrible pan- thers; and as soon as they ~vere driven oW an army of bats as big as pigeons was about their ears. But, above all, there came a beast bigger than an elephant, black, with a head like a horse, and its forehead arme with three horns, called by the Indians odonta. This odonta, having drunk at the lake, espied the camp, and immediately charged it, notwithstanding the fires. In this last encounter six-and-thirty soldiers were slain and fifty-three falchions rendered useless, At length the monster died, transfixed by spears. While the men were thus employed, the quadrupeds were attacked and killed by an army of Indian rats. Those who would see what the hippodami were like, as well as the scorpions, serpents, crabs, (which, by the way, have the form of lobsters or crayfish,) white lions, panthers, bats, and, above all, the odonta that figured in this night attack, let them turn to the de- lectable woodeuts in the Prodigiorum ac Ostentorum ~hronicon Basilem, l~7. * Hollands Pliny. 70 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. Captain Stedman was lying in his hammock, as his vessel floated down the river, when the se~ti- nel told him that he had seen and challenged something black moving in the brushwood on the beach, which gave no answer. Up rose the cap- tain, manned the canoe that accompanied his ves- sel, and rowed to the shore to ascertain what it was. One of his slaves cried out that it was no negro hut a great snake, that the captain might shoot if he pleased. The captain, having no such inclination, ordered all hands to return on hoard. The slave, David, who had first challenged the snake, then begged leave to step forward and shoot it. This seems to have roused thc captain, for he determined to kill it himself, and loaded with ball cartridge. The master and slave then proceeded. David cut a path with a bill-hook, and behind came a ma- rine with three more loaded guns. They had not gone above twenty yards through mud and water, the negro looking every way with uncommon vivacity, when he suddenly called out, Me see snakee ! and, sure enough, there the reptile lay, coiled up under the fallen leaves and rubbish of the trees. So well covered was it that some time elapsed before the captain could perceive its head, not above sixteen feet from him, moving its forked tongue, while its vividly bright eyes appeared to emit sparks of fire. The captain now rested his piece upon a branch, to secure a surer aim, and fired. The ball missed the head, but went through the body, when the snake struck round with such astonishing force as to cut away all the underwood around it with the facility of a scythe mowing grass, and, flouncing with its tail, made the mud and dirt fly over their heads to a con- siderable distance. This commotion seems to have sent the party to the right about; for they took to their heels and crowded into the canoe. David, however, entreated the captain to renew the charge, assuring him that the snake would be quiet in a few minutes, and that it was neither able nor inclined to pursue them, supporting his opinion by walking before the captain till the lat- ter should be ready to fire. They now found the snake a little removed from its former station, very quiet, with its head, as before, lying out among the fallen leaves, rotten bark, and old moss. Stedman fired at it immediately, but with no better success than at first; and the enraged animal, being but slightly wounded by the second shot, sent up such a cloud of dust and dirt as the captain had never seen, ex- cept in a whirlwind; and away they all again retreated to their canoe. Tired of the exploit, Stedman gave orders to row towards the barge; but the persevering David still entreating that he might be permitted to kill the reptile, the captain determined to make a third and last attempt in his company; and they this time directed their fire with such effect that the snake was shot by one of them through the head. The vanquished monster ~vas then secured by a running noose passed over its head, not with6ut some difficulty, however; for, though it was mor- tally wounded, it continued to writhe and twist about so as to render a near approach dangerous. The serpent was dragged to the shore, and made fast to the canoe, in order that it might be towed to the vessel, and continued swimming like an eel till the party arrived on board, where it was finally determined that the snake should be again taken on shore, and there skinned for the sake of its oil. This was accordingly done; and David, having climbed a tree with the end of a rope in his hand, let it down over a strong forked bough, the other negroes hoisted away, and the serpent was suspended from the tree. Then David, quit- ting the tree, with a sharp knife between his teeth, clung fast upon the suspended snake, still twisting and twining, and proceeded to perform the same operation that Marsyas underwent, only that David commenced his work by ripping the subject up; he then stripped down the skin as he descended. Stedman acknowledges, that though he perceived that the snake was no longer able to do the operator any harm, he could not without emotion see a naked man, black and bloody, cling- ing with arms and legs round the slimy and yet living monster. The skin and above four gallons of clarified fat, or rather oil, were the spoils secured on this occasion; full as many gallons more seem to have been wasted. The negroes cut the flesh into pieces, intending to feast on it but the captain would not permit them to eat what he regarded as disgusting food, though they declared that it was exceedingly good and whole- some. The negroes were right and the captain was wrong; the flesh of most serpents is very good and nourishing, to say nothing of the restora- tive qualities attributed to it, and noticed in a former paper. One of the most curious accounts of the benefit derived by man from the serpent race, is related by Kircher (see Mus. Worm.), where it is stated that near the village of Sassa, about eight miles from the city of Bracciano, in Italy, there is a hole or cavern, called la Grotta del/i & rpi, which is large enough to contain two men, and is all perforated with small holes like a sieve. From these holes, in the beginning of spring, issue a prodigious number of small, different colored ser- pents, of which every year produces a new brood, but which seem to have no poisonous quality. Such persons as are afflicted with scurvy, leprosy, palsy, gout, and other ills to which flesh is heir, were laid down naked in the cavern, and, their bodies being subjected to a copious sweat from the heat of the subterraneous vapors, the young ser- pents were said to fasten themselves on evecy part, and extract, by sucking, every diseased or vitiated humor; so that, after some repetitions of this treatment, the patients were restored to perfect health. Kircher, who visited this cave, found it warm, and answering in every way the description he had of it. He saw the holes, heard a mur- muring, hissing noise in them, and though he owns that he missed seeing the serpents, it not being 71 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE~BOOK OF A NATURALIST. the season of their creeping oat, yet he saw great numbers of their .exuviie or sloughs, and an elm growing hard by laden with them. The discovery of this air Schiangenbad was said to have been made by a leper going from Rome to some baths near this place, who, fortunately, losing his way, and being benighted, turned into this cave. Find- ing it very warm, and being very weary, he pulled off his clothes and fell into such a deep sleep that he did not feel the serpents about him till they had wrought his cure. Such instances of good-will towards man, com- bined with the periodical renovation of youthful appearance, by a change of the whole external skin, and the character of the serpent for wisdom, contributed, doubtless, to raise the form to a place among the deities. Wee may not forget that Genii were sometimes paynted by the Paynims in the forme and shape of man, having a home, betokening plentie or abound- ance in their hand; as is yet to be seen in many olde and auncient stampes or coynes; and some- times in the forme of serpents; which may well serve to understand that verse of Persius Pinge duos angues, pueri, sacer est locus, & c. And this did not Servius forget, speaking of that serpent which ATheas (in his anniversaries or yearly sacrifices, celebrated to the name of his father Anchises) did see to creepe upon his tombe; touching the which (~s Virgill saith) .LEneas was uncertaine whether it were the Genius of his father or of the place. And this may also helpe to the interpretation of another place in Theocritus, in his hooke of Characters, (which I have also cor- rected from the vulgar and common reading,) where he saith, that a superstitious person, seeing by chaunce a serpent in his heuse, did consecrate unto it a little chappell in the same place. But my meaning is not here to speake of serpents, which (as Pltitarch saith) were consecrated unto noble and heroicall persons, and which, after their deaths, did appeare neere to their corpses; for this is not any part of our matter; albeit a man may very well fit, unto the Genii, that same which he hath delivered touching this point.* Fond of milk and wine, these genii, like the ldbricus anguis of Virgils fifth book, tasted the libations and were regarded as sacred. Their aptitude for tameness was another quality which aided their elevation. The little girl men- tioned by Maria Edgeworth, of blessed memory, took out her little porringer daily to share her breakfast with a friendly snake that came from its hiding-place to her call ; and when the guest intruded beyond the due limits, she would give it a tap on the head with her spoon, and the admoni- ti()n, Eat on your own side, I say. A lad whom I knew kept a common snake in London, which he had rendered so tame that it was quite at ease with him and very fond of its snaster~ When taken out of its box, it would *A Treatise of Specters or Straunge Sights, Visions, and Apparitions appearing sensibly unto Men. At London. Printed by Val. S. for Matthew Lownes. 1005. creep up his sleeve, come out at the top, wind itself caressingly about his neck and face, and when tired retire to sleep in his bosom. Carver, in his travels, relates an instance of docility, which, if true, surpasses any story of the kind I ever heard. An Indian belonging to the Menomonie, having taken a rattlesnake, found means to tame it ; and when he had done this treated it as a deity, calling it his great father, and carrying it with him in a box wherever he went. This he had done for several summers, when Mons. Pinnisance acci dentally met with him at this carrying place, just as he was setting off for a winters hunt. The French gentleman was surprised one day to see the Indian place the box which contained his god on the ground, and opening the door give him his liberty; telling him, ~vhilst he did it, to he sure and return by the time he himself should come back, which was to be in the month of May follow- ing. As this was but October, monsieur told the Indian, whose simplicity astonished him, that he fancied he might wait long enough, when May arrived, for the arrival of his great father. The Indian was so confident of his creatures obedience, that he offered to lay the Frenchman a wager of two gallons of rum, that at the time appointed he would come and crawl into his box. This was agreed on, and the second week in May following fixed for the determination of the wager. At that period they both met there again, vhen the Indian set down his box and called for his great father. The snake heard him not; and the time being now expired, he acknowledged that he had lost. How- ever, without seeming to be discouraged, he offered to double the bet if his father came not within two days more. This was further agreed ~n ; when, behold, on the second day, about one oclock, the snake arrived, and of his own accord crawled into the box, which was placed ready for him. The French gentleman vouched for the truth of this story, and, from the aecount~ I have often received of the docility of those creatures, I see no reason to doubt its verae~ty. Southey has taken advantage of this docility, when he brings before is the diabolical arch- priest, and his monstrous god. The general grave Was delved within a deep and shady dell, Fronting a cavern in the rock, . . . the scene Of many a bloody rite, ere Madoc came. A tempt e as they deemed by Nature made, Where the snake-idol stood. Suddenly Neolin Sprung up aloft, and shrieked, as one who treads Upon a viper in his heedless path, The God! the very God! he cried, and howled One long, shrill, piercing modulated cry, Whereat from that dark temple issued forth A serpent huge and hideous. On he came Straight to the sound, and curled around the priest His mighty folds innocuous, overtopping His human height, and arching down his head, Sought in the hands of Neolin for food; Then questing, reared and stretched and waved his neck, And glanced his forky tongue. Who then had seen The man, with what triumphant fearlessness, Arms, thighs, and neck, and body wreathed and ringed In those tremendous folds, he stood secure, Played with the reptiles jaws, and called for food, Food for the present God! . . who then had seen 72 LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A NATURALIST. The fiendish joy, which fired his countenance, Might well have weened that he had summoned up The dreadful monster from its native hell By devilish power, himself a fiend infieshed. Making every allowance for the exaggerations of the Spaniards, idolatry in general and snake- worship in particular must have been manifested in the country of Neolin in all its hideousness. Bernal Diaz* declares that The head of a sacrificed person was strung up; the limbs eaten at the feast; the body given to the wild beasts which were kept within the temple cir- cuits; moreover, in that accursed house they kept vipers and venomous snakes who had something at their tails which sounded like morris-bells, and they are the worst of all vipers; these were kept in cradles, and barrels, and earthen vessels, upon feathers, and there they laid their eggs, and nursed up their snakelings, and they were fed with the bodies of the sacrificed, and with dogs flesh. We learnt for certain, that, after they had driven us from Mexico, and slain above 850 of our soldiers and of the men of Narvaez, these beasts and snakes, who had been offered to their cruel idol to be in his company, were supported upon their flesh for many days. When these lions and tygers roared, and the jackals and foxes howled, and the snakes hissed, it was a grim thing to hear them, and it seemed like hell. Mexico, says Mr. Bullock, still possesses many objects of study for the antiquarian ; and he goes on to tell us that sculptured idols are to be found in various parts of the city. The corner- stone of the building occupied by the lottery-office when he was there, and fronting the market for shoes, was the head of the serpent-idol, of great magnitude; in his judgment it was not less than seventy feet in length when entire. Under the gateway of the house, nearly opposite the entrance to the mint, was a fine statue of a deity, having ~he human form in a recumbent posture, about the size of life. This was found in digging a well. The house at the corner of a street, at the south- east side of the great square, was built upon, and in part supported by, a fine circular altar of black basalt, ornamented with the tail and claws of a gigantic reptile. In the cloisters behind the Dominican convent was a noble specimen of the great serpent-idol, almost perfect and of fine work- inanship, represented in the act of swallowing a human victim, which is crushed and struggling in its horrid jaws. The sacrificial stone, or altar, is buried in the square of the cathedral, within a hundred yards of the calendar stone.t The upper surface only is exposed to view, which seems to have been done designedly, to impress upon the populace an abhorrence of the horrible and sanguinary, rites that had once been performed on this very altar. It is said by writers that 30,000 human victims were sacrificed at the coronation of Montezuma. Kirwan, in the preface to his metaphysics, states the annual number of human victims immolated in Mexico to be 25,000. I have seen the Indians themselves throw stones at it; and I once saw a * Bernard Diax del Castillo. t Popularly called Montezumas watch. boy jump upon it, clench his fist, stamp with his foot, and use other gesticulations of the greatest abhorrence. As I had been informed that the sides were covered with historical sculpture, I applied to the clergy for the further permission of having the earth removed from around it, which they not only granted, but, moreover, had it per formed at their own expense. I took casts of the whole. It is twenty-five feet in circumference, and consists of fifteen various groups of figures, repre- senting the conquests of the warriors of Mexico over different cities, the names of which are written over them. But the largest and most celebrated of the Mexican deities was known to be buried under the gallery of the university. It was liberally dis- interred at the expense of the University in a few hours; and Mr. Bullock had the pleasure of seeing the resurrection of this horrible deity, before whom tens of thousands of human victims had been sacrificed. It is scarcely possible (observes our author) for the most ingenious artist to have conceived a statue better adapted to the intended purpose; and the united talents and imagination of Brughel and Fuseli would in vain have attempted to improve it. The idol was hewn out of one solid block of basalt, nine feet high, its outlines giving an idea of a deformed human figure, uniting all that is horrible in the tiger and rattle-snake. Instead of arms it is supplied with two large serpents, and its drapery is composed of wreathed snakes, interwoven in the most disgusting manner, and the sides terminating in the wings of a vulture. Its feet are those of the tiger, with claws extended in the act of seizing its prey,. and between them lies the head of another rattle-snake, which seems descending from the body of the idol. Its decora- tions accord with its horrid form, having a large necklace composed of human hearts, hands, and sku?ls, and fastened together by the entrails. It has evidently been painted in natural colors, which must have added greatly to the terrible effect it was intended to inspire in its votaries. If that grim stone could havc spoken, what agonizing scenes it might have described The heart still panting was taken by the priest from the breast, and deemed th~ more acceptable to the deity if it smoked with life; and the mangled limbs of the victim were then divided amongst the crowd as a feast worthy of the goddess. In the night of desolation, called by the Spaniards Noche Triste, in which many were made prisoners by the Mexicans, the adventurous Cortex, and his few remaining companions in arms, were horror-stricken by witnessing the cruel manner in which their cap- tive fellow-adventurers were dragged to the sacrifi- cial stone, and their hearts, yet warm with vitality, presented by the priests to the gods; and the more the separated seat of life teemed with animation, the more welcome was the offerinr to the goddess the more heart-rending the cries of the victims, the more grateful the sacrifice to this monster representative of deformity and carnage.* * Six Months in Mexico. Those who saw, as I did, the cast of this infernal deity, in Mr. Bullocks Ex- hibition in 1824, will acknowledge that his description is not overcharged. 73 LIFE AND LETTERS OF JOSEPH STORY. From the Athenaum. Ljfe and Letters of Joseph Story, Associate Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, and Dane Professor of Law at Harvard University. Edited by his Son, WILLIAM W. STORY. 2 vols. Chapman. A VOLUMINOUS biography of this illustrious judge and excellent man will be opened with eager anticipations by members of the profession which he adorned, and not without considerable interest by general readers. The profound eru- dition of the late Mr. Justice Story as a technical lawyer, his skill as an advocate, and the soundness of his decisions as a judge, are admitted wherever the law is studied as a science. With a black-let- ter lore in the common law equal to that of Coke, he united a knowledge of the more modern doc- trines of equity and commercial law at least equal to that of Eldon or of Stowell. In the liberal application of legal principles to the new combina- tions and requirements of modern society, he was, perhaps, superior to all his predecessors, not even excepting Lord Mansfield. According to Lord Bacon, Judges ought to remember that their office is jus dicere, not jus dare,to interpret the law, not to make it. No great lawyer ever adhered to this important precept more constantly and more conselentlously than Judge Story; but no liberal thinker ever entertained more enlightened views of the functions of his office. The letter of the law as interpreted by the genius of Story became instinct with a catholic and beneficent spirit; and the crabbed forms and technical proceedings, so c