The Living age ... / Volume 76, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 626 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0076 /moa/livn/livn0076/

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The Living age ... / Volume 76, Note on Digital Production 0076 000
The Living age ... / Volume 76, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 970 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 626 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0076 /moa/livn/livn0076/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 970 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 3, 1863 0076 970
The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 970, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

LJTTELL~ LIVING AGE. CONDUCTED BY E. LITTELL. E PLURIBUS UNUIS. These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and the chaff thrown away. Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. THIRD SERIES, VOLU1~TE XX. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. LXXVI. JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH. 1863. BOSTON: LITTELI, SON, AND COMPANY. R. Wheeler, Stereotyper, 21 Cornhill. Press of Geo. C. Rand J& Avery. z LI9r TABLE OF ThE PRINCIPAL CONTD~TS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME LXXVI. THE NTIETII QUARTERLY VOLUME OF TH~ THIRD SERIES. JANUARY, FEBRUARY, MARCH, 1863. QUARTERLY REVIEW. M era Political Memoirs, Christopher North, The Stanhope Miscellanies, 217 435 463 CHRISTIAN IREMEMBRANOER. 391 Arthur Hugh Clough, BLAcKwOODS MAGAZIN All in the Wrong, or the Ts~er Tamed, Chronicles of CarlingfordSalem Chapel, Professor Wilson Mrs. Cliffords Marriage, 0 51, 243 69 586 FRASERS MAGAZIN Sippurim, Sir Benjamin Brodie, A Day at the Dead Sea, BENTLEYS MISCELLANY. The Story of Richard Savage, A Prince in Search of a Wife, 99 348 483 408 497 DUBLIN UNIVERSITY MAGAZINE. Little Flaggsthe Almshouse Fo dung, 195,300 UNITED SERVICE MAGAZINE. The United States, CHRISTIAN ODSERUER. The United States, . MAcMILLANS GAZINE. Human Vegetation, 139 138 160 GOOD WORDS. Meditations in Advent, 373, 387 Highland Flora 454 Wiclifs Version of the New Testament, 579 Biography of Certain Hymns, . . 609 ST. JAMESS MAGAZIN A New Comedy of Errors, . . . 365 Wooings and Weddings of the Princes of Wales 569 NOTES ANT) QUERIES. The Body of John Hampden, 567 EXAMINER. PsychologiSal Inquiries, London Lyrics Seniors Biographical Sketches, Bohns Bibliographers Manual, 24 283 511 547 SPECTATOR. A German Princessthe Duchess of Sagan, 31 Failures of French Diplomacy, 83 Policy of a Negro Army for the North, 136 China and Great Britain, 141 The Sorceress 147 Scriptural Novelettes 152 The Presidents M ~sage, . . . 178 Statesmanship of the Prince Consort, . 181 Morals of the French Empire, . . 183 Afghanistan Inherited by Jews, . . 184 Borrows Wild Wales, . . . 214 Russells Diary North and South, . . 236 English Christianity and Slavery,. . 285 Dr. Lemprieres Mexico: Japoleons Schemes, 291 Circulation of Modern Literature, 311 University Intellectual Characteristics, 339 A Robin on Crusoe Painter, . 345 The Pope and Italy 380 Revolutionary Committee, Rome, 381 Holy Sepulchre 381 Davis vs. No0 roes, . . . . 381 Bishops of Confederate Church on Slavery, 423 The Two Proclamations, The Emperors Speech, . . . 428 The Letter to General Forcy, . . 471 Beresford Hope on thu Confederates, . 472 The Alabama . . 474 The Two Worlds in the Moon, . . 505 Epigralns, Ancient and Modern, . . 516 The Last Imperial Plan: Mexico and its Con sequences, . . . . 525 The Seas and Snows in Mars, . . 537 The Archives of the Vatican, . . 550 The Capital of the Tycoon,...553 The Unholy AlliancePrussia and Russia, 557 The Worldly Wisdom of Bacon, . . 562 Iv CONTENTS. EcoNoluIsT. National Powers compared, Proposed Mediation with America, The Attitude of the Pope, Defect of American Institutions, Increased Probability of a Long War, Tone of the French Ministry Alarming Europe, PRESS. English Women of Letters, Wedgwoods English Etymology, 34 36 44 85 427 to 523 124 542 40 42 118 126 SATURDAY REVIEW. The French Prqject of Mediation, The Proposed Mediation, Bishop Colenso on the Pentateuch, The Works of Thomas Hood, The Edinburgh Reviews on the Supernat- ural, UnrestraintProfessor Wilson, Language of Christ and the Apostles, The Waverley Novels, Lady Morgan Hallams Remains sthctical Delusions The British Suttee Turners Liber Studiorum, Hugh Millers Tales Marshal Neys Last Speech, Practical Young Ladies, Trollopes Tales of all Countries, LONDON REVIEW. Mr. Gladstone and Professor Newman, Ruined Cities in Africa, Marriage Cards Mr. Storys Rome, . A Female Ragged School in Egypt, DriftingPoland, England, Europe, ATHEN~UM. Lady Morgans Memoirs, Something of Italy, News from the Gorilla Country, Mrs. Atkinsons Travels in Tartary, CRAluDERss JOURNAL. Railway Dangersa Victim to Science,. 130 149 155 187 262 459 494 503 531 559 564 565 600 134 280 342 505 544 614 105 123 287 603 Fifteen Years at the Galleys, Love in a Diving-Bell, Science and Arts for January, ALL THE YEAR ROUND. Coming into a Fortune, Felicia Crompton, Blind Black Tom, 816 534 539 168 355 413 PUNCH. The Two Georges, 377 ATLANTIC MONTHLY. Jane Austen and Writings, 418 JOURNAL DES DEBATS. The American Question, LONDON DAILY NEWS. Voices of British Working Men, 38 328 MORNING STAR. English Sympathy tested by Popular Meet ings, 831 RECORD. Bishop Colenso LONDON AMERICAN. Which Side should Englishmen sympathize with? N. Y. EVENING POST. The Ancient Ways, . Count Gurowskis Diary, The Story of the Guard, . Early Treason unveiled now, Lectures on the American Revolution, 121 133 87 93 140 150 379 DAILY ADVERTISER. The Dark Side, the Bright Side, the Prac tical Side, 94 Nathan Hale 430, 477 NORTH AMERICAN. The London Times Two Years ago, 295 238 INDEX TO VOLUME LXX VI. All in the Wrong, or the Tamer Tamed, American Institutions, Defect of, Ancient Ways, The, Albert, Prince, Statesmanship of, Afghanistan inhei~ited by Jews, Africa, Ruined Cities in, Afrite, Rising of the, Alabama, Case of the, Advent, Meditations in, Alexandrian Antiquities, Austen, Jane sthetical Delusions American Contributions to Starving English- men, Arts and Science for January, Atkinsons, Mrs., Tartary, 3 55 87 181 184 280 288 835, 475 373, 387 389 418 494 518 539 603 Brodie, Sir B., Psychological Inquiries,. 24 Border State Governor on the Proclamation, 140 Butlers Farewell to New Orleans, 176 Bright on America 186 Borrows Wild Wales, . 214 British Working men, Voices of, 328, 381 Brodie, Sir Benjamin 348 Blind Black Tom, . . . . 413 Bishops of the Confederate Church on Slavery, 423 Bohns Biographical Manual, . . 547 Bacon, The Worldly Wisdom of, . . 562 Brides and Bridegrooms, . . . 578 Chronicles of Carlingford, . . 51, 243 Colenso, Bishop; on the Pentateuch, 118, 121 Christian Observer, The, on the United States 138 China and Great Britain, . 141 Christ and his Apostles, Language of, 155 Coming into a Fortune, . 168 Cotton, King, and the North, 288 Circulation of Modern Literature, 311 Comedy of Errors, A New, . 365 Canadian Opinion 377 Clough, Arthur Hugh 391 Cliffords, Mrs., Marriage, . . . 586 Dorothea, Princess, Dark and Bright Sides of the War, Davis vs. Negroes, Dead Sea, A Day at the, Drifting English Christianity and Slavery, Emperors Speech, The, Etymology, Wedgwoods, Egypt, Female Ragged School in, 31 94 381 483 614 ~S5 429 542 544 French Diplomacy, Failures of, 83 France, Present Morals of, Felicia Crompton, Forey, Napoleons Letter to, French Ministry, Tone of, Gurowskis Diary, Gladstone and Newman on America, Guard, Story of the, Gorilla Country, News from the, Galleys, Fifteen Years at the, Georges, The Two, 188 355 471 523 9$ 135 140 287 316 377 Hood, Thomas, Works of, Human Vegetation Hale, Nathan 430, Hallams Remains Hope, Beresford, on the Confederates, Hampden, John, Body of, Hymns, Biography of Certain, Italy, Something of Italy and the Pope I ly, Revolutionary Committee in Rome, Imperial Plan, The Last, Little Flaggsthe Almshouse Foundling, 195, London Lyrics Letting the Cat out, Loyal Speech in the fllinois Legislature, Love in a Diving-Bell, 126 160 477 459 472 567 609 123 380 381 525 300 28$ 334 521 534 Mediation 36, 38, 40, 42 Morgans, Lady, Memoirs, . . 108, 262 Modern Political Memoirs, . . . 217 Mexico, LemprieresNapoleons Designs, 291 Marriage Cards . 342 Musical ProdigyBlind Black Tom, . 418 Moon, The Two Worlds in the, . . 508 Manchester Working men, Mr. Lincolns Reply to 518 Mediation, Protest against, 519 Mars, Seas and Snows in, 537 Millers, Hugh, Tales 55t~ Newman, Professor, on the War, . . 138 Newman, Professor, and Mr. Gladstone, 134 Negro Army, Policy of a, for the North, 136 Naval Ordnance, 378 North, Christopher 435 Newman, Professor, on the American War, 476 Neys, Marshal, Last Speech, . . 564 Psychological Inquiries, . . 24 Power, Comparative, of different Nations, 34 Pope, Attitude of the, . . . 44 Pelletan, M., on America, . . 139 VI INDEX. Proclamation, Border State Governor on the, 140 Seniors Biographical Sketches, . . 511 Presidents Message 240 Science and Arts for January, . . 539 Peninsular War, How Conducted by a Free People 268 Treason, Early, Unveiled, . . . 181 Proclamation, TheA Comparison, ~ Times, London, Two Years ago, . 238 Proclamations, The Two, . 425 Turners Liber Studiorum, . . . 631 Prime, A, in Search of a Wife, ~7 Tycoon, The Capital of, . . . 553 PolandThe Unholy Alliance, ~ Trollopes Tales of all Countries, . . 600 Practical Young Ladies, . . . 565 Tartary, Mrs. Atkinsons, . . . 603 Russells Diary North and South, . 236 United Service Magazine on the United: Railway DangersA Victim to Science, 295 Robinson Crusoe Painter, A, 34~ States 139 Revolution, American, Lectures on the, 379 Unrestraint 149 Red Sea Canal 380 University Intellectual Characteristics, 339 Salem Chapel 51, 243 Vatican, Archives of the, 550 Sippurim, 299 Supernatural, The Edinburgh Reviewer on, 130 Wilson Professor 69 Sorceress, The 147 Women of Letters, English, 124 Scriptural Novelettes 153 Waverley Novels 187 Savage, Richard, Story ~f, 408 Wales, Borrows, . . 214 Slavery, Bishops of the Confederate Church War, Probability of a Long, 427 on 423 Wales, Wooings and Weddings of the Princes Stanhope Miscellanies, The, 463 of 569 Suttee, The British 503 Wedgwoods 1~tymology, 542 Storys Rome,~ 505 Wiclif s Version of the New Testament, 579 SHORT ARTICLES. Authors and Circulating Libraries, Arctic Birds below Quebec, Bache on Sea-Sickness, Brown, Dr. John, Anecdote of, Backwoods Sermon; Bonaparte Family Register, Chiffonier Chinese Fortune-Tellers, Christmas Carol, Extraordinary, .Dont Bother Me, Drowning, Rescue from, Digestion of Mental Food, Female Medical Students, Freezing to Death, Goethes Birthplace, Grecian ~cencry, Graceless Florin, Horticulture Abroad, Josephine, The Empress, Jacksons Statue, Japanese Oddities, Knowles, Sheridan, Death of, Ketch, Jack, . Music of Port Royal Negroes, Maurice, F. D 235 Medicine 510 261 Political Antiquarianism, 154 30 Pines, Glory of the 167 536 Poisoners and.Polkas 299 546 Paper, Dearth of 354 608 Prophecy in Jest 510 Petroleum Oil 549 51.5 Pickets, Rebel, Trading, 552 556 Pictorial History 599 602 Rogers, New Group by, 288 125 Renwich, Prof., Death of, . . . 327 417 599 Suez Canal 117 Shakspeares Sbylock 284 422 Stars, Distance of tbe 295 507 Silk, Sale of, in Lyons, . . . 327 Story, Recent $tatues of,. . 470 23 St. Cecilia, the Patroness of Music, . 527 413 Salt 533 608 Spain, Revival of, . . . . 549 470 Turkish Great Exhibition, 68 Tahiti, Pyramids in 261 129 Tien-Ching-Chow, ., 376 315 552 Union as it shall be 96 284 Victoria Regia 96 344 William the Silent 23 46 Whitewashing~ 129 117 Walled Lakes 213 INDEX. VII POETRY Autumnal Sonnet, . . . 98 Buttercup, Song of the, 242 Ben Butler 432 California Privilege 2 Cumberland, 2 Charlestown, Battle of 142 Cart before the Horse 143 Cry of a Lost Soul 146 Charles V.s Song in his Coffin, 194 Cradle, The Old 283 Coachman of the Skylark, . . . 383 Color Sergeant, The, Daisy, Song of the 242 Delaroches Picture of Marie Antoinette, 338 Entire Submission 98 Emersons Boston Hymn, 338 Engine-Driver to his Engine, 383 Emigrant Girl, The 482 Frost in the Holidays 191 France, Interests of 191 Greece, Isles of 142 Give 143 Golden Words 432 Greeting to the George Griswold,~ . 530 Humanity, Voice of 192 Humbugged Husband, Song of the, 242 Human Sympathy 432 Highland Flora 454 Hope 528 142 191 Lesson of the Year 290 Lincoln, President, To, 290 Lines for Music Lady and Knight, 384 Long Ago 384 Lethe 386 Impatience of Hope, Johnson, Dr., Sonnet to, Millennium in the Nursery, Moaning Sea, The, Mutilations November New Song to an old Tune, Night on the Lagunes, Orange, The, Old Age, Happy, Pamunky, Lass of the,. Proclamation, The, Palmerston Puzzled, Richmond, Overtures from, Revolutionary Hymn, Reveille, The, Rejected Addresses, River of Time, Sudden Light, Sketch in Seven Dials, Storm in the Country, Samaritan Pentateuch, Sing again that simple Song, Sea-Bathing, True or False, Treasons Last Device, Treasures Vespers Vagrant, The old, Looker-Out 480 Laughing Chorus, . . . 480 Lines found in a Drowned Mans Pocket, 615 Lifes Answer 616 Lady-Killers 616 146 242 50, 143 386 530 283 576 2 290 493 144 146 382 480 528 194 283 384 522 616 616 50 382 386 434 576 War-Songs for Freemen, 47 Wife, To my,in the Future, 144 When I get the Tin 192 Widows Mite, The 283 Winters Morn 384 Waiting 434 When Green Leaves come again, . . 434 TALES. All in the Wrong, or the Tamer Tamed, 3 Galleys, Fifteen Years at the, . . 316 Chronicles of Carlingford, . . 51, 243 Coming into a Fortune, . . . 168 Little Flaggs, the Almshouse Foundling, 195, 300 Comedy of Errors, A New, . . . 365 Love in a Diving-Bell 534 Cliffords, Mrs., Marriage, . . 586 Felicia Crompton, . . Salem Chapel 51, 243

The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 970 1-48

THE LIVING AGE. No. 970. 3 January, 1863. CONTENTS. 1. All in the Wrong; or, the Tamer Tamed, 2. Psychological Inquiries. By Sir B. Brodie,. 3. A German PrincessDuchess of Sagan,. 4. National Powers compared, . 0. Proposed Mediation with America, 6. The American Question, . 7. The French Project of Mediation, 8. The Proposed Mediation, ~ The Attitude of the Pope, Blackwoods Magazine, Examiner, Spectator, Economist, Journal des N.bats, Saturday Review, Economist, POETRY.Cahfornia Privilege, 2. The Cumberland, 2. The Lass of the Pamunky, 2. War Songs for FreemenHarvard Students Song, Soldiers Morning Song, Shall Freedom droop and die P Old Fancuil Hall, Trumpet Song, 47, 48. SHORT ARTICLEs.William the Silent, 23. Prof. Bache on Sea-Sickness, 30. Nusi. of the Port Royal Negroes, 46. John Davy on Army Diseases, 46. 0 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & 00., BO STON. Vor Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Lrrnee Aes will be punctually for- warded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand. somely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free 01 expense of freight, are for ss~lS at two dollars a volume. A~v VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars. bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBEIt may b~ bad for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to c~midete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. 3 24 31 34 36 38 40 42 44 CALIFORNIA PRIVILEGE. THE CUMBERLAND. The Rev. J. Starr King sends from Califor- nia, to she Transcript, the following verses upon the contribution from that State to the hospitals. CALIFORNIA PRIVILEGE. NOT ours, where battle smoke upcurls, And hattie dews lie wet, To meet the charge that treason hurls By sword and bayonet. Not ours to guide the fatal scythe, The fleshless reaper wields; The harvest moon looks calmly down Upon our peaceful fields. The long grass dimples on the hill, The pines sing by the sea, And Plenty from her golden horn Is pouring far and free. O brothers, by the further sea, Think still our faith is warns; The same bright flag above us waves That swathed our baby form. The same red blood that dyes your fields Here throbs ii) l)atriot pride; The blood that flowed when Lander fell And Bakers crimson tide. And ths~s apart our hearts keep time With every pulse ye feel, And Mercys ringing gold shall chime With Valors clashing steel. F. B. HASTE. THE CUMBERLAND. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. AT anchor in Hampton Roa(ls we lay, On board of the Cuntherland sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarurn of drums swept past, Or a bugle-blast, From the camp on the s~hore. Then far away to the South uprose A little feather of sno~v.white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship ~f our ~es Was steadily steering its course To try the ftrce Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent an(l sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, hut send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! As hail rebountls from a roof of slate, Rebounds otir heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monsters hide. Strike your flag! the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain, Never I our gallant Morris replies; It is l)etter to sink than to yield I ~ And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black. She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp I Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannons breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. Lord, bow beautiful ~vas thy day I Every ivaft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. 0 brave hearts that went down in the seas I Ye are at peace in the troubled stream, Ho, brave land I with hearts like these, Thy flag that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam! Atlantic Monthly. THE LASS OF THE PAMUNKY. YOUR glens and groves I neer admired, And olt, your broom and birks the~ pall so! Of Burn sides (all but one) Im tired, And of your bonny lasses also. The man that sings the Battks of Doon, And hinesI hold him hut a donkey; My heart heats to another ttine, And thats the Batiks of the Pamunky. For that famed Lass of Patties Mill I would~t give one nickel penny; Of Nannies weve quite had our fill, Of Peggies and of Jessies many. Ditto the Lass of Ballochmyle, All set so tediously to one key: Snppose we try a different style, And sing the Lass of the Pamunky! Then sing no more the Banks of Cree, Or Aftons, green and softly rounded, But sing the steamer on the P Where tltey took me when I was wounded. And sing the maiden kind and true, Trim, handy, qitiet, sweet, and spunky, That nursed me, and made no ado, When I lay sick on the Pamutiky. Fair hands! but not too nice or coy To soothe my pangs with service tender,; Soft eyes! that watched a wasted boy, All loving as your lands defender! Oh, I was then a wretched sltade, But no~v Im strong, and growing chunky, So, Forward! but God bless the snaid That saved my life on the Pamunky. Daily Advertiser. F. J. 0. 2 ALL IN THE WRONG; OR~ THE TAMER TAMED. From Blackwoodts Magazine. ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, TIlE TAMER TAMED. A STORY WITHOUT A MORAL. CHAPWR I. Tml old gray manor-house had nestled down to dreamless slumber in the hollow of the hills: the rooks in the tall elms behind it had at last settled into silence. But. the young mistress of the manor still flitted to and fro on the terrace, slowly and with soft footfall, never hastening, never pausi~g; not conscious that the light had faded and the dew was falling. There was light enough for the dreaming of such dreams as hers, enough of the warmth of hope and young life in her heart to resist a far graver chill than any that was to be feared from the tepid air of the summer night. Presently a lattice creaked on its hinges, and a voice from the many-casemented west window asked, Claret ave you out there still? Pray, come in, my will take cold; and there is a letter foryou. A letter !froni Allan? No; from Mr. Stanner. Having heard this, Miss Watermeyr seemed in no haste to obey the summons. For some minutes she leant over the terrace balustrade, breathing the perfume which rose like incense from the great bed of val- ley lilies under the wall. In the porch she paused againthe hoiieysuckles seemed so peculiarly, so bewilderingly sweet to-night, as if reminding her of past joy, and proph- esying to her of joy to be. So it appeared at first; but she paused too long, till her heart seemed suddenly to sink within, her. Perhaps some unrecognized instinct warned her that, passing into the house to-night, she passed over one of those boundary-lines of life which we cross unconsciously, and only perceive when we look back upon them from a distance. You are shutting out the twilight early, are you not, auntie? she asked, entering the drawing-room, and finding that the lamp had been brought in, and that a servant was letting fall the curtains. Auntie a placid-looking old lady, dressed with somewhat of the quaint gravity of old ladies of an olden time, which made her look peculiarly in keeping with the large, low, oak-wainscoted and oak-raftered room smiled. Your thoughts must have been pleasant to-night, Glare: it is very late; for the last hour I have not been able to see to do even my coarse knitting. My thoughts have been pleasant, auntie, Glare said, softly, seating herself, as the ser- vant left the room, on a low stool at the o14 ladys feet. I have been thinking of Allan of how sweet it will be to have him home again at last. I have been very happy with only you, auntie, hut still I do feel lonely I sometimes, and it is so long that he has been away. Very long, my dear; I hope that yoi~ may never be separated againnever left with only auntie any more. I do not know that I shall wish that. Glares color had risen; she spoke proudly as she added, I do not wish anything to he considered as settled; we were so young then. Mrs. Andrews was silent for some time; when she spoke, it was with some consider~.. able show of embarrassment. I am not apt to croak, dear Glare, or to be a bird of ill omen, but I feel as if I ought to warn you that you must not expect all will go smoothly: I mean I would have you prepared to endure some things that wiU seem hard at firstvery hard, if you meet them in a proud spirit. You have been good and gentle to me always; still, my dear1 y~ are too proud: you have a more obstinate will than is beautiful in a woman, or consist- ent with a womans happiness. I wish tq warn you against itto put you on your guard. A woman must learn to submit be.. fore she can be what she should hebefore ~she can be happy. Dear auntie, what is all this about? What have I done P What am I going to he done to? Will Allan come home a ty- rant? Am I to learn to submit to his will? He used to have no will but mine. In spite of her light tone, Glares heart sank. Your father was a tyrant, my dear. Mrs. Andrews spoke in a suppressed voice, glancing round the room, as if conscious of the treasonableness of her words. He did not approv~ of any amount of liberty for women; he was my poor sisters jailer rather than her husband; his jealousy 4ur.. ilig the last years of her life, which were t~ ALL IN THE WRONG; OB, THE TAMER TAMED. last of his too, amounted to something bor- dering on insanity. I have always thought it unlikely that, with his opinion of women, he should have left you free, and aa heiress; and, my dear, you are of age to-morrow. Clare took the letter from where it had been lying on the table, disregarded till now. You think I shall find that lam, without my own consent, disposed of? she said. This letter, perhaps, is to tell me of my destination, my fate. Mr. Stanner gener- ally writes if he has anything disagreeable to say: he is afraid of me, I think. As I should be, my dear, if you often spoke to me in that tone, or looked at me as you have been looking at that inoffensive paper. Clare did not smile, or let her features re- lax; she had opened the letter. A short respite, she said, harshly. My guardian only writes to say that he is coming to speak to me on business of importance to- morrow, and shall probably do himself the pleasure of spending a few weeks here. They are going to spoil all my pleasure in seeing Allan again, she muttered, when she was alone in her own room. Mr. Stanner is coming to help auntie play pro- priety: we shall be watched, our actions observed, and feelings speculated upon. Perhaps I shall dislike Allan now; I shall, if he seems sure of successthinks I am to be won without wooingthat I am already won. Mr. Stanner might have waited for an invitation here; it is not much use to be mistress, if he comes when and for as long as he pleases. The girlish softness and sweetness had passed from Miss Watermeyrs face: re- flected in the glass she saw that of a woman who would have been beautiful had she been less proud. CHAPTER II. CLAItE woke next morning with a sense of something impending: she did not know what she dreaded, but a gloom was over everything, a weight upon her usually light elastic spirits. Mr. Stanner, who lived at no great dis- tance, arrived early; but he seemed rather to shun than to seek oppoj~tunity for a tote- ~t-tt~te with Clare: being both kind-hearted and timid, he was at once fond of his ward and afraid of her. On her part she did not return his affection, and held him more in contempt than in awe. She had always been able to wind him round her flng~r in such unimportant matters as there had been question of between them, and she was not herself enough truly womanly to feel, nor had she experience enough of life to know, that a gentle-hearted man, easily swayed by a womans wish or will in trifles, may yet show himself to be inflexible when need is. Mr. Stanner was, perhaps, hardly able to teach Clare this lessonyet it was a lesson it would be well that she should learn. It was Clare who at last broke the silence, which she felt to be ominous and oppressive, saying after dinner, when Mr. Stanner had joined her and Mrs. Andrews in the draw- ing-room, If you have husiness to talk to me about, shall we go into the library now, while Mrs. Andrews takes her nap P If you please, but there is really no hurry. Clare stood expectant, so Mr. Stanner had no alternative but to rise from the soft depths of a luxurious chair into which he had just sunk with a sigh of content, and follow her from the room. It is very warm this afternoonvery warm, upon my word! Thus Mr. Stanner broke the silence which had ensued when he and Clare were seated; he drew out his handkerchief, passed it across his forehead, and glanced furtively at his fair ward as he repeated his assertion. I feel it is something unpleasant that you have to tell me, Clare said. You need not be afraid to speak; no doubt I shall be able to bear what you may have to communicate. Unpleasant! oh, by no means at least, not necessarily so. Afraid to speak! why should I be, my dear young lady? You have no deadly weapon concealed among the amplitude of that light and pretty dress, in which you look so charming. If you begin to pay me compliments, I shall be quite sure that something disagree- able is to follow them. To come to the point at once, then~ You are aware that Mr. Allan Watermeyr, your fathers half-brothers son, whom, for brevity, we will call your cousin, is expected home from abroad in a few days. As my cousin has himself written to m~ to this effect, I certainly am awareof it. 4 ALL IN TflE WRONG; on, THE TAN~ER TAMED. dares color had risen at the first mention of her cousins name; but Mr. Stanner stu- diously avoided looking at her. As he con- tinued, he became more and completely absorbed in the contemplation of some speck or flaw on one of his carefully tended finger- nails. Every step I take in this matter I am obliged to take without exercising my own judgment. Every step has been planned for me. Your father left me the most mi- nute directions: compliance with some of his instructions is a painful duty. Unhap- pily, your father believed that he had cause to entertain but a low opinion of your sex. From his point of view, his conduct was, perhaps, right and wise; from other points of view, I do not hesitate to say that it seems to me foolishnay, extravagant and mischievous in the extreme. But, my dear young lady, much, if not everything, rests with yourself: if you can subdue your pride and control your somewhat high temper, let events take the course they would easily and naturally have taken had you, as I could have desired, remained in ignorance of what I am compelled to communicate to you: if you will adopt this womanly and becoming line of conduct, all will yet go well. Perhaps for womanly and becoming I might substitute spiritless and abject, in- terposed Clare; but pray go onlet me hear the worst at once. If you will bear in your mind your fa- thers lamentable and mistaken views, you will be less unprepared for my communica- tion. It was your fathers desire, that when you and Mr. Allan Watermeyr had respec- tively arrived at a suitable age, you should according to his way of expressing him- self enter purgatory together: he had many reasons for wishing that you should be united. You know that, during the last years of his life, his friends had cause to fear that his mind was somewhat affectedwhat was sense, and what insanity, it was not al- ways easy to say. He talked sometimes of having played Jacobs partcheated Esau (Mr. Allans father) of his birthright; then he would say, A marriage between his boy and my girl will make reparation, especially if she turns out like her mother. I have heard him say that a hundred times, always with the same smilea smile that struck me as sinisterrepeating the last phrase again and again, and Spare me all humiliating details, Clare said, impatiently. She had sat looking out on the sloping lawns, down which the sun- ~hine seemed pouring to the river, quite still, but with an ever-deepening crimson on her fair face, and a threa~ening brightness flashing from her eyes. As the mutual attachment existing be- tween you and Mr. Watermeyr is no se- cret A boy-and-girl affair, which either of us, or both of us, may now wish forgotten, in- terrupted Clare. I need not imagine that anything I have yet said need be classed in the category of unpleasant communications. Mr. Stanner had not heeded Clares interruption, except to pause while she spoke, and then proceed as if she had not yet spoken. It is the way which your father took to insure the fulfilment of his wishes, which, in accord- ance as it is with his low opinion of your sex, may naturally be somewhat distasteful to you, my dear young lady. Let me beg you to be wise and patient; let me assure you that no rash revolt can show so truly noble a spirit, so true a dignity, as a quiet disregard of Mr. Stanner, Mr. Stanner, do come to the point! Clare broke in, with a tone of feverish impatience. When you are twenty-two, then, in one year from to-day, all that is now yours is to be Mr. Watermeyrs only yours as his wife. I am to be dependent on marriage with him for a subsistence! I expected injus- tice, injury, insult, but nothing so intol- erable! Look at it from a right point of view, and it is not so bad, my dear. A wife is natu- rally dependent upon a husband: as I said before, your mutual attachment is no secret; if events take their natural course.- Spare me this twaddle Forgive me that uncourteous expression. Is there more to hear regarding my fathers will? Only this - Mr. Stanners face had flushed angrily if you marry any one but your cousin, you forfeit everything; if you choose to remain single, a small pittance and the West-End Cottage will be yours 6 a mean and miserable provision, of which, however, there is no fear that you will need to avail yourself. One question, Mr. Stanner; does Mr. Watermeyr know what you have told me? Asking this, Clare challenged and met her guardians glance. He does. He was extremely pained and indignant. If there is any way of evading the willif it is possible to settle the prop- erty on you unconditionallyhe is deter- mined it shall be done. He entreated that at least you might remain in ignorance of your position. I would willingly have had it so; but I am not a free agent. Clare was looking out againdown the sunny lawn to the riverall her color had faded now. Mr. Stanner rose. The girls fair face looked so stony that he felt as if to address her would have been like addressing a statue. She did not move or speak, and he left her to her own thoughtsnot sorry to escape from her near neighborhood, for the atmosphere around her seemed danger- ous. It took Glare some time even to real- ize her position. She loved the old house; she loved every lawn, shrubbery, every field, tree, dell, and dingle of the manor; she loved it as the kingdom where she reigned supremewhere she had believed she should always reign. She loved it as the only home she had ever knownas the place where she had been bornwhere her mother had lived and died. If a selfish love, it was still a more passionate love than any other she had known. She believed that she had loved Allan, not perhaps with the love of men and women when they love the best, hut with a love that with her had passed for that love. In all her dreams regarding her future he played a part, a secondary parta prince- consorts part, perhaps. She was the queen, the lady of the manor; he her first retainer, her serviceable and chivalrous knightone whom she delighted to honor, whom she enriched with her favorsand now The sunshine had left the lawn, the twi- light had faded from it before Glare moved; when she did, it was to shut herself into her own. room, not to appear again that night. Mrs. Andrews could not gain admission: Clare, from within, would only say, Not to-night, auntie; I cannot bear to be spoken to to-night. ALL IN THE WRONG OR, THE TAMER TAMED. CHAPTER III. NEITHER to Mr. Stanner nor to Mrs. An- drews did Glare speak on the subject that of course engrossed her thoughts. She kept much apart; unwonted whiteness on her cheeks, and dark circles, that told of sleep- less nights, surrounding her eyes. A few days after her conversation with her guardian, she heard from her cousin. When she had read his brief note, she passed it to her companions. It was very briefonly this DEAREST CLArtE,I hope to follow this letter in a few hours. How much is con- tamed in those poor words! With me I shall venture to bring my dear old friend, John Smith, trusting that, for his own sake, he may be welcomefor mine, not other- wise. Now, in this haste, I dare not allow myself to say.more than that I am yours, ALLAN WATERMEYR. Having read this note, Glare took no more heed of it, though she had been wont to keep and garner up carefully every line her cousin wrote to her. Mrs. Andrews replaced it in its cover, and laid it beside Glares plate; but Glare left the breakfast-table without again looking at or touching it. Which rooms shall I give your cousin and his friend? Mrs. Andrews asked, fol- lowing Glare into the conservatory. This conservatory opened from the breakfast- room: through it you could reach Glares special retreat, her favorite sitting-room, or could step out upon the terrace. It was a pretty place; its many light and graceful pillars, garlanded with blossoming creepers, gave it a fairy-like look; it had been built at Glares wish from a plan Allan had drawn for her. Filling up a recess in the south front of the house, it was doubt- less an incongruous addition to the gray and grave solidity of the original architecturej yet very few people would have wished it away. I have no authority in this house. Give them what rooms you please, was Glares sullen answer. That is foolish, my dear. For twelve months yet to come you are mistress here. It is foolish to say you have no authority. Do you think I will stay meekly till my tei~m exl)ires Pto be turned out at the end ef it? Mr. Watermeyr may be master at, ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. onc3means to be master at once: without my permission he brings a friend; let him invite a dozen if he pleases, it will make no difference to me. I will find a home some- where else. I will leave this place at once; I will not meet him. Glare leant her head against one of the gay garlanded pillars, and burst into pas- sionate tears; it was the first time that she had alluded to her new knowledge. Order everything as you think best, she said, when she could speak, and moved away. But brave little Mrs. Andrews fol- lowed her to her room, sat down before her, scolded her first, comforted her afterwards; laid thorough siege to her, would not be re- pelled or silenced. Glares reserve yielded the waters of bitterness gushed out; her grief and her indignation found words to which Mrs. Andrews listened with patient sympathy. I say again, my dear, that a wicked man (I must call things by their right names) has done wickedly and cruelly. You are placed in a painful position, no doubt, but it might have been much worse. I say again, there is but one course for you to take: put this knowledge aside, and act according to the instincts of your heart. Why should you revenge upon Mr. Watermeyr, the sincerity of whose love you have never doubted, and whom you loved before you knew of this, the wrong your father did you P Indeed, my poor Glare, you are too proud. A woman should delight to owe all to a man she loves. She gives him all he wants in giving him herself; between a husband and wife there should be no mine and thine. Indeed, of all women I have always pitied heiresses. I am half inclined to congratulate you instead of to condole with you, my dear. Suppose, however, said Glare, softly and shyly, that I find I do not love Mr. Watermeyr. And then suppose he no longer loves mc, but from pity, and from motives of generosity, feels bound to marry me. And supposeoh, a thousand things may be true that would make my position intolera- ble. It is intolerable. It might not be to all women, hut it is to me. Oh, it is no use talking, auntie, preaching meekness and p~- tienceno use, no. use. Still aunties preaching had been of some use; the outbreak had done Glare good. She did not submit, but she submitted to waitto meet her cousin, and mature her plans. It was late in the day when the travellers arrived. Clare was the first to hear car~. riage-wheels upon the drive that swept up to the west wing of the house: she sat still, and gave no sign; but presently her guar.~ dians duller ears were aware of this same sound. He rose and offered one arm to Glare, one to Mrs. Andrews, saying, We shall be just in time to receive Mr. Watermeyr at the hall-door. Glare had not meant to receive Mr. Water- meyr at the hall-door-had not meant to go one step to meet him; she bad made up her mind to await him where she was. Mr. Stanner waited before her; she hesitated a moment, and then yielded. Mr. Watermeyr was just springing up the steps. Mr. Stanner drew Glare forward to meet him, at the same time removing her hand from his own arm. Glare offered it to her cousin mechanically. Clasping it in, both his, Mr. Watermeyr bent his head towards her. Glare drew back haughtily. We are not children now, she said. As she saw the handsome and sensitive face, which had looked so happy, eager, and loving, cloud over, she felt a triumphant sense of power, and was almost generous enough to regret the having used it. Gen- tler wordswords of an at least ordinarily kind welcomewere on her lips, when she met the glance of a pair of keen eyesthe eyes of Mr. Watermeyrs friend, who stood behind him (as Glare thought), like Mephis- topheles behind a young and fair-faced Faust fixed on her with an uncompromising, it seemed to her hostile, scrutiny. Mr. Stan- ners cordial greeting made the coldness of Glares more conspicuous. She felt this felt herself in the wrongassured herself it was that mans fault. Her manner, when Mr. Smith was presented to her, was cer- tainly not conciliatory. Glare went to her own room that night very thoroughly, very wholesomely, dissatis- fled with herself. The cloud of pain had not cleared off her cousins brow; she felt that she had rudely dashed all joyousness from his home-coming. She thought over their relation tQ each other in years gone by how chivalrous his devotion had alwaysbeen how unvarying his gentle patiene~ even 8 when he was quite a boy. She repented of which you suffer, John Smith said: I love you, my boy, more than I have loved any womanmore than I could love any woman; still I am obliged to believe in the existence of that malady. Men were created a little lower than the angels; it is the temporary subjection to an inferior being (which seems for most men, thank Tleaven, not for all, to be a phase nature ordains that they should pass through) which keeps them lo~ver. I think I can give no stronger proof of my love for you than by waiting to see the issue of your malady, in spite of the hospitable reception the most hospitable entertainmentof my gracious hostess. Clares position is a most cruel one. If she has not been perfectly courteous to you, John, you certainly have not been concilia- tory in manner to her; you started with a harsh pre-judgment. Founded only on my conviction that no woman lives worthy to be worshipped as you worship your cousinthat she being, by your own admission, proud, was specially unwor- thy. As to her manner towards me, that is nothing; I am too ineffably gifted with self- esteem to be troubled or ruffled by a girls small insolences. If you can be lenient in your judgment of a woman, be so of Clare; or rather, do not judge her at all. There is no need you should, and you see her under the most un-. favorable circumstances. Oh, Twill be most lenientpay her back courtesy for scorn. But if she is going to play the shrew to you, I shall be sorely tempted to play Petruchio to her. John ! there was a dangerous light in Allans eyes as he spoke if we are to con- tinue friends, this must be a closed subject. I cannot bear it touched as you touch it. I understand; I can be silent and pa~- tient with my sick boy. But I must stand. by and watch the game for you.~~ Mr. Smiths eyes at this moment wan- dered from Allans face to the shrubs and flowers behind it. A mischievous gleam came into them as they lighted on some- thing from which they were quickly averted. Speaking a little more loudly than he had spoken before, and with elaborate distinct,- ness, he said, I must just observe this before I let th~ subject drop. I have always thought that women have a wondrous power of tyrannotz her harshness, resolved to try and atone for it, determined to meet him to-morrow in quite a diffei~nt spirit. But on that day, as on the evening before, Allaas friend, con- sciously or unconsciously, acted as the evil genius of both Allan and Clare. Clare avoided all chances of heing alone with Mr. Watermeyr, and if, whea they were together, she forgot the present position of affairs, and remembering only how things had been, spoke to him with anything of warmth in her tone, or looked at him with anything of softness in her eyes, she imme diately became conscious of Mr. Smiths ob- servance, and felt or fancied something sar- castic in the expression of his face as he watched her; something which, reminding her of all she had for a moment forgotten, froze her back into guarded formality. CHAPTER IV. ALLAN and his friend were alone in the breakfast-room one morning discussing plans for the day, after the rest of the party had left it. Allan was leaning against the wall close to the conservatory door, but with his back turned to the conservatory; his friend, pacing the room with a sharp, jerky step, betraying an excessive irritability either of mood or of temperament, stopped before him now and again. Miss Watermeyr refuses to go on the water with us?~ he asked. She thinks it will be too hot. With such a breeze, and a cloudy sky! Stuff! I wonder a lady of her talent could not invent a more veritable seeming inve- racity; but she did not care to trouble her- self to do so, that is the insolence of itthe intolerable insolence of it. The last words were spoken too low to be heard by Allan, who was absorbed in his. own thoughts. Making one of his abrupt pauses before Allan, putting his tawny face close to his, and his hands on his shoulders, Mr. Smith said, I am afraid, my poor boy, you do not speed in your wooing. ~ If at all, with a very ill speed, Allan answered, looking up into the dark face with one of his peculiar smiles, womanishly ten- der and melancholy for so resolutely moulded a mouth. I have no experience of the malady from ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. insolence; but I do think that Miss Clare Watermeyr is in this way supremely gifted. Ibut I know that. I only harass you by my snarling and carpingI have no wish to do that; your fair cousin is a sufficient irritant. Come, let us go on the river. What is the matter, my dear fellow P At a slight noise behind him Allan had turned sharply round. The door at the other end of the conservatory shut softly as he did so; his cycs fell upon a garden-glove and a freshly gathered rose dropped midway between that door and the one opening on the terrace. Allan turned upon Smith fiercely. You raised your voice on purpose you saw her there! Do you call that manly P It was cowardly to strike at a woman so; cowardly, I say, and cruel and treacherous. Mr. Smit.h looked steadily into the young mans agitated face: there was a reddish glow in his eyes, otherwise his own face said little, his tongue nothing. His silence was well calculated. After a few moments after a few turns up and down the room Allan came up to him. Possibly, he said, von believe that such words as those you have just spoken serve my interests. You mean well towards me, at least. I do believe so, Smith answered, and therefore I am not l)enltent. I can only repeat, Allan rejoined, that if we are to continue friends, this subject must be avoided, and such conduct as yours to-day not repeated. We are to continue friends, Mr. Smith said, evasively. Now let us work off our wrath and vexation ~f spirit in the best pos- sible way, by making that model of a boat of yours fly up to Willow Creek in no time. First I must have a few words with Mr. Stanner. If you like to stroll down to the river, I will follow you in five or ten min- utes. Good! Before he ivent towards the river, Mr. Smith entered the conservatory, walked straight to where lay the glove and rose, and picked them up. He did not know exactly what he would do with themwhether he would send them to Miss Watermeyr by her maid, or return them to her himself, or re- place them where he had found them. He StoOd meditating, with a sardonic smile twitching the corners of his mouth as ho looked at the small glove. He was thinking, perhaps, how strange a state a man must be in when he so loved and reverenced a woman, that anything she had touched or worn was for him dear and sacred. To kiss a glove for instance, ho said, it must be a curious ceremony; let me rehearse it. He had just raised her glove to his lips when Clare came into t.he conservatory. She had heard her cousin inquiring for Mr. Stan- ner, and expected that the breakfast-room was now empty; she wished to recover her glove before it should have been observed; her cousin had perhaps meant to possess himself of it when the cynic was out of the way. I believe this is what you look for, Miss Watermeyrthe glove you dropped a few minutes since. I was just acting as Allans representative, and at the same time making an experiment on my own account as to how a man can feel when he practises such fool.. ery as this. Again he raised the glove to his lips; the action was performed with well-counterfeited fervor, with inimitable though mocking grace. After it, with the same air, he fastened the rose in his button-hole. Clare turned paleonly with anger, she believed; but a curious thrill of fear passed through her, meeting the eyes fixed full on her as Mr. Smith offered her her glove. She would have liked to refuse it, desecrated, contaminated as it was, but she did not dare; so she took it, bowed without speaking, and returned to her room. Very often, in the course of the morning, her fair brows knitted themselves involunta.. rily as she recalled that little scene. She had been mocked and baffled, and had been quite passive. For this and other injuries Cfare desired revenge. Who is this Mr. Smith, auntie P I know he has been Allans friend for a long time; but where did Allan pick him up at first? she asked Mrs. Andrews, the first time she was alone with her. Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell much about him. There seems a very strong attachment between him and your cousin. Mr. Smith saved Allans life once, when he would other- wise have been drowned, and he has been useful to Allan in many ways; he is poor, I 10 ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. believe, and of no familyfills some situation at one of the foreign universities, you know, and is Ofli~ in Englund during the vacation. CHAPTER V. CLARE, desiring to avenge herself, began to observe and measure her adversary. If women give themselves to the pursuit of re- venge, not being strong, they perhaps must needs he treacherous. Clare did desire re- venge, and only one way of obtaining it seemed open to her. Of that way Prudence said, It is dangerous; Conscience, It is ~vrong; but Pride declared, You are safe. Her resolve was taken one morning, as from the breakfast-room window she scruti- nized her enemy. Mr. Smith was lounging on the terrace, hatless, in the full blaze of the morning sun. ~n his attitudes there was something of listless southern grace when he was in repose, as there was much of sudden southern fire when he was roused. His head, with its northern massiveness, looked some- what too large for the slight and ~)eculiarly flexible figure; his features, though small, had something of coarseness in their moulding looked as if they had been worn down by con- stant frictiofi, rather than at first delicately chiselled: the mouth would have been undeni- ably fine, almost grand, had it not worn a look of habitual compression. If for a moment this mouth took an unconscious and tender curve, if the lips uttered a noble or generous senti- ment, and forgot for a moment to follow it by a sneerif at the same time the shaggy brows for a moment raised themselves suffi- ciently to let sunshine from within or with- out illumine the eyes beneatheyes resem- bling a Highland tarn in depth and color then, for that moment, an ordinary woman wo~ild hardly have denied that Mr. Smith had a face, if not handsome or beautiful, at- tractive to an unusual degree. I say an or- dinary woman, because at such times it was a face of the type most dangerous to such women as, of neither the highest nor the lowest order of moral or spiritual develop- ment, go to form the mass of womankind. In it there was a suggestion of possible law- lessness and tyranny, which, while it would have repelled a nature of the highest order, through being out of harmony with its knowl- edge and love of true beauty, would have in- spired, one of the lGwest with unmitigated fear, beenuse such a nature could have no perception of the redeeming qualities which might render innocuous those it did per- ceive. Clare, noticing for the first time that the uncared-for locks on which the blaze of sun- light fell were pretty freely sprinkled with gray, was wondering how this caine about, what Mr. Smiths age could be, when sud. denly he rose and came to the window at which she stood, the purpose and directness with which he did so showing that he had been quite aware of her observance. This annoyed Clare, and she felt at once placed her in the worse position. Good-morning, Miss Watermeyr a beautiful morning. I have, as you have seen, been enjoying the warmthsunning myself as your peacock is doing. I suppose, as we are at hostile powers, we are privileged the one to take the measure of the other. I have allowed you to exercise this privilege uninterruptedly for some time. It was more the manner than the words themselves that were offensive to Clare, and something in the direct, unflinching glance that accompa- nied them, made her shrink from entering upon any engagement of looks or words. She retreated a few paces from the window as she answered, Are we hostile powers, Mr. Smith P I am unaware either that this is the case, or why it should be so. Her tone was wonderfully gentle, yet it seemed to have no softening influence. You use a womans privilege, Miss Wa- termeyryou must ask me what privilege, or I dare not name it. Consider the question asked, Clare said, making an attempt to give a light, bantering tone to the conversation. But Mr. Smith chose to remain immovably grave, and to speak with harsh severity of tone. 1 consider that you consider (meaning not Miss Watermeyr in particular, of course, but women in general) that to lie is the priv. ilege of your sex. Men and women always meet on unequal terms: from men is exacted the strictest truth and honor, while the law of long use allows to women the weapons of cunning and falsehood. Clare felt that she flushed in an almost intolerable way, partly from anger, partly from a sense of detected guilt. Mr. Smith marked his advantage7 and continued, Then, again, a woman with impunity treat a man with the moat4e~ ALL IN TETE WRONG; OR, THE TAMI~ft TAMED. liberate insolence, even under circumstances that make it doubly hard for him to endure itwhen, for instance, their relations are those of hostess and guest; but any devia- tion from courtesy, ordinary and extraordi- nary, on the I)art of the man, is considered a crime against all the most sacred supersti- tions of man the individual, and of that cu- rious compound of amalgamated mankind kno~vn as society. You, at least, are free from such sacred superstitions! cried Clare, in uncontrolla- ble passion. True! I am at daggers-drawn with su- perstition, and wage war against these empty conventionalities. I do not think you will find it pos- sible to carry on such a warfare under this roof. Madam! how am I to understand you? Mr. Smith scowled at Glare formidably from under his brows as he asked the question. In any way you please, sir, she an- swered, too angry to be intimidated. Mr. Smith bowed profoundly. Glare swept away. Poor Glare! yet she deserved no pity. Mr. Smith wrote a letter that day to a friend abroad. This is an extract from it You ask me how I mean to amuse my- self. In a novel mannerin breaking in a woman, taming a shrew, not for my ~wn use, but for my friend. I am the guest of this sclWne Teufelinn. This morning she gave me notice to quit; before to-morrow at this time she shall have asked me to stay nay, more, shall have asked my pardon. If I describe this fair shrew to you, you will fall in love with my description; so I for- bear, only saying that though she had the most beautiful foot in the world, as you might incline to maintain, I could not toler- ate seeing it set on a mans neck, that man my friend; though she had the most beeu- tiful hand in the world, as white as a lily, as smooth as sculptured marble, as soft as a moles skin (a new simile that !), I would not let it play with a mans heart-strings as with the strings of a harpto make music or discord at its pleasure. It is well you are not in my place; you would fall a vi& tini at once; you would rave of her wonderful eyes, her sunshine-spun hair, her teeth, lips, chin; her brow would dazzle you blind by its whiteness, and the changing rose of her cheek would Are you not dying with longing and envy? I hope so. Glare had a miserable day. From her window up-stairs, in her usual sitting-room, she did not feel safe from the observations of her audacious guest; she noted all the proceedings of her cousin and his friend. Again that morning they were upon the river. Mr. Smith appeared to have a pas- sion for rowing. In the afternoon they rode over to the neighboring town. She was not asked to join them in either expedition. As she dressed for dinner, she saw the two young men leaning against the balus- trade of the terrace, partly in the shadow of the cedar, talking earnestly. It seemed to Clare that Allan was pleading or remon- strating with his companion, who presently turned sharply roundhis face had been half avertedput both hands upon Allans shoulders, and looked into his face with an expression which made Clare think, If I loved that Mr. Smith, and Allan were a woman, this little scene would have killed me with jealousy. Then she laughed to herself, and looked in the glass: she had an exquisite taste in dress; to-day she had not been careless. As the light laugh rip. pled over her face, and chased the lines of gloo~n and sullenness before it, she was not ill-pleased with the result of her efforts; What is the use, if I cannot keep my tem- per? she said. I will keep it. When she ~veat into the drawing-room, she found all the little . party assembled there. Mr. Stanner was saying, Leave im 80 soon, Mr. Smith! indeed you must not.~ You have seen nothing, done nothing yet. We are very proud of the beauty of our neighborhood, and must show it to you, who can so well appreciate it. For many reasons I shall be sorry to leave so suddenly, but and he looked full at Glare unless a most improbable event happen, I shall be forced to do so. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have afforded, me great pleasure to be longer Miss Waterineyrs guest; but the circumstances which decide me no longer to avail myself of her hospitality are not ordinary. Glare pretended to be absorbed in Mrs. Andrews~s embroidery. She commented upon her progress, stooping so as partially to hide her face; then dinner was announced. Mr. Smith wa~ grave and subdued in hi, manner all that evi~ning; warmly affection. 12 ALL IN THE WRONG OR, THE TAMER TAMED. ate towards Allan, he was also scrupulously, though icily, courteous to Clarethus, as she felt, placing her still more in the worse position: if he had been angry and insolent, she would have been much more at her ease; of course he knew this. - Allan and Clare chancing to be alone on the terrace for a few minutes, Clare gaid, You are very sorry that your friend leaves you so soon? I confess I am very sorry. Why do you not persuade him to stay? I cannot; I have tried. If you have failed, no one, I am sure, is likely to succeed. No one but yourself. He has deter- mined to leave, because, for some reason he will not explain, he is sure that his presence here is (to use his own words) offensive to you, the mistress of the house and so, in that way, injurious to me. He leaves, then, after all, on your ac- countout of consideration to you, Clare said. His friendship for me is very strong, and very disinterested. I assure you that he has a heart as loving as it is noble, though you would not think so. IL certainly should not think so, Allan. Well, I do not wish to scare away your friend: I have no right to do so. This morning, stung by some of his cynicisms, I lost my temper and offended Mr. Smith. Shall I apologize and ask him to remain? I will, if you wish it. Apologize! no, certainly. I should not choose you to apologize to any man, Allan answered, proudly. Clare winced, but let the expression pass for once. She had spoken with an affecta- t.ion of carelessness; of course, Allan could not guess her complex motives for this con- cessiona concession which delighted him, for his friends sake and his own. It was too dusk outdoors now for him to see the ex- pression of her face, or he might not have been so much delighted. But though I should not wish, or like, you to apologize to John, feeling sure that he must have been at least equally in fault ~A1lan continued, after a pause I should be deeply gratified, dear Clare, by your ex- pressing to him a wish that he should post- pone his departure. I will do so, Allanand you must take the consequences. They will be that he will remain: a word from you will be enough. Shall I bring him to you now? No; I will choose my own time and place; there is no hurry. You said he meant to leave to-morrow night One word more before you go in. Am I very selfish in allowing you to ask my friend to stay? Is his presence really disa- greeable to you? I can tolerate it, Clare answered, with a laugh Allen did not understand. Now, dont keep me out any longer; it is quite cool. May I venture to thank you th~us? Allan touched Clares hand with his lips. She withdrew her hand, not angrily or has- tily the truth being that, full of other thoughts, she hardly noticed the action. They had approached near enough to the windows for the light from the room to fall upon them. Mr. Smith noticed all the points of this little by-playClares air of abstrac.. tion, Allans flushed and eager-eyed look of happiness. What is up now? thought the cynic. He further thought, as he pres- ently looked at Clares hand resting on the back of a crimson velvet chair, as she stood a few moments at the window, listening tol- erantly to Allans comments on the beauty of the scenelawns, woods, river, and the distant hillsthat, just for the sake of ex- perience, he would not mind re-enacting the little comedy of the other morning, substi- tuting the ladys hand for the ladys glove. Presently the expression of Clares face became more than tolerant animated, in- terested. Mr. Smith stole from the near neighborhood of the cousins, but not before he had become aware, with a curious thrill, that Allan was talking of his student life, and of the varied and valuable services ren- dered him by his friend during that critical period. Poor dear Allan! soliloquized Clare, when she was alone for the night. Perhaps even to herself she did not explain this sud.. den compassion. For all that, even if I believed it, I have been insulted, insolently treated, and must have my revenge. And her face flushed proudly, and she smiled into her own eyes shining upon her from the glass, dilated with ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. anticipation of triumph. The expression of her face changed as she continued: Allan is wonderfully good, wonderfully guileless; he can be firm, too, even imperious, I ex- pect. He ~would not choose me to apologize to any man! She repeated that, dwelling on the word choose. I hate myself for making him suffer, yet I take delight in it, too. If he were not so good, I should be more likely to love him, I think. He is too good for me! Then, in strong contrast to her cousins frank, fair face, she saw the dark inscrutable cQuntenance of Mr. Smith. Glare had strange dreams that night. CHAPTER VI. CLARES first thought on waking was of what she had to do that day, and of how she would do itwhether lightly and jestingly, or in a way that should make a serious scene. After all, it is not much use deciding beforehand, she said to herself, as she ~vent down-stairs recognizing by these words that it was not her mood, but Mr. Smiths, that would give its tone to the interview. Mr. Smith was always up and out early. She put on her garden hat and gloves, and with basket and scissors went down the terrace-steps and passed the lawn to the sheltered rosary. She filled her basket: strolling slowly back, through a circuitous well-screened path, she, as she had antici- pa ted, met Mr. Smith coming from the direc- tion of the river. He was passing her with a bow, when she stopped him. Are you implacable, Mr. Smithunfor- givingly resentful? Will you leave us to- day ~ she asked, with a winning smile. I should have done so yesterday, but that I hesitated to give Allan that pain. And you will go to-day? Most certainly. Having ascertained this, have you any further commands? I command you to remain, Glare said, laughing, but not, for all that, at ease. Mr. Smith raised his brows, and gave no other sign. Shall I teach you the proper answer to make to a ladys command? To hear is to obey. I render no obedience where I owe no allegiance. Seriously, Mr. Smith Glare began. I am and have been quite serious, Misa Watermeyr. Well, I am now quite serious. Will you reconsider your determination? I promise4 my cousin that I would ask you not to go. Will you, for his sake, consent to remain ? ~ WeAllan and Ihardly need a medi.. ator. You have now, in compliance with your promise, asked me not to go. I will not disappoint you by complying with your request. We understand each other, I think, and things, of course, remain as they were. I ask you,then, as a personal favor to abandon your intention of leaving us so sud~ denlv. Glare looked conscious of having made an immense concession, but she saw no relent~ ing in Mr. Smiths face, so she continued, If I spoke angrily, unbecomingly, ycs~ terdayif I forgot that you were my guest I ask your pardon for having done so. The ice so far broken, swayed by the im~ pulse of the moment, she went on to say a good deal more than she had intended, or than was fitting. You made me angry. It seems just now as if everybody combined to insult and vex and perplex me. If you knew allall I have ~o bear, all I expect to have to bearI think you would not be quite so harsh. I have no one to advise me, there is no one to trust tOb I have, I dare say, seemed cold and proud, unkind to Allan insolent, as you rightly called me. But if you knew how miserable I am, how much I need help. You will say, There is Allan; hut he is the last person to whom I can go for help. But why should I speak of this to you, who choose to con- sider me as an enemy? Have I humbled myself enough, Mr. Smith? Will you stay with us for the present? If Miss Watermeyr herself desires, and requests in her own name that I should con- tinuc to be her guest, this alters the whole position of affairs. I will gladly remain here longer. He had watched her very keenly while she spoke. Though he had seen her color change and her eyes moisten, he did not believe in her. Thank you, said Glare. And if we are to be enemies, may I know why we are to be so ?why we may not he friends? I have your cousins happiness more 14 ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. heart than anything else in the world, and you make him miserable. You received him on his arrival in a way that at once made me your enemy, because it made me feel that you were his. Since then have I not seen you torment him daily? How then, with such hostile aimsI wishing his happiness, you causing his misery can we be other- wise than hostile powers? Do you think that I suffer nothing? that all the torment and misery are his? If you would but judge me a little less harshly. Will you try? Clare spoke with something of passion in her appeal, offering her hand as she did so. Mr. Smith took the hand in his; it was not gloved the sunshine glistened on its snow. If you would but make Allan happy, he said. Will you try? Clare blushed angrily. Again she felt herself mocked; but she felt more than that .something she did not understand: tears of pain and mortification rushed to her eyes. I cannot, savage and cynic as I am, ac- cept your apologies, and make none. You had provocation There! I cannot make pretty speeches. Consider all I should say said thus He kissed her hand; he raised it to hi~ lips with an air of careless condescension, as a prince might a pretty peasant-maidens; but the kiss could hardly pass for one of careless condescension, or of cold ceremony. A thrill of triumph passed through Clares heart, but when Mr. Smiths face was raised again, those lips had such a queer smile upon them, that she knew not what to think, so she smiled coldly, saying, as she withdrew her hand, An interesting scene, which a spectator would hardly interpret aright; so we will I end it, if you please. These words, and the manner of them, neutralized any soften- ing influence of what had gone before. You mean that you withdraw the white flag of truce? Mr. Smith said. Look upon this in that light, she said, and offered him a white rose from her bas- ket; hut, as he accepted it, he said, You have to teach me in another way than this, whether it is peace or war between us. They walked towards the house together, silently. Again poor Clare was baffled and ~erp1exed. She felt that she had been played upon, whereas she had meant to be the player, not the instrument. When, at breakfast, something was said about Mr. Smiths plans, he answered briefly, The event to which I alluded as most improbable has taken place; therefore, for the present, I am quite at the service of the fair company here assembled. Miss Water- meyr, could not you persuade Mrs. Andrews to trust herself to our tender mercies on the river? We should be proud to show our skill to you ladies. Are you going on the river, then, Claret Mrs. Andrews asked. If you will come too, auntie, Clare an- swered, promptly, though she had not been asked before; though she did not much like the water, and had no inclination to go on it that morning. She wished for an interval of peace, and felt that her refusal would be regarded as a declaration of war. A~intie was always rather fond of the water, Allan said; and the matter was set- tled, to the astonishment of two of the party at leastAllan and Clare. The excursion proved a success. Clare was gentle, Allan in brilliant spirits; Mr. Smith bitter of course, but not at the ex- pense of any member of the party, which made all the difference to his companions. Mr. Smith added a postscript to his let~ ter I was right; my superb young hostess has begged me to remain her guesthas asked my pardon for the words which gave me offence. Oh, I shall be able to tame this lioness, and lead her to her masters feet. Tamed or untamed, he is obliged to take hershe is obliged to belong to him; so I do a good work if I can break her in for the quiet uses of domestic life. I should be quite confident of quick success, only that I fancy the beautiful creature is treacherous as well as strong. I have a dim suspicion that she is playing a game with me, or trying to do so. I distrust her sudden gentleness, and shall keep well upon my guard. CHAPTER VII. IT was indeed playing with edged tools, the game in which C~re and Mr. Smith en- gaged. Naturally the two antagonists occupied themselves much one with the other: a mu- tual study of character, and a mutual ob ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. servance of conduct, were of course need- ful. Opportunities for this were not want- ing; their intercourse was constant, if it was not intimate. Clare rode, walked, or went on the river with the two friends daily now. This change made Allan very happy; from it he drew all manner of good omens, as also from the fact that Glare did not, as she had done at first, avoid being alone with him. At such times she encouraged him to talk about his friend, and perhaps forgot to bear in mind that from Allan she was sure to hear of nothing that did not tell favora- bly for her adversary. Mr. Smith was more on his guard; he let Allan talk of Clare, but he made ample allowance for the blind partiality of a lover. Among the cottagers round he tried to hear of her pride and tyr- anny, but without much success; he heard her spoken of not certainly with the inti- macy of love, but with gratitude and admi- ration. Of course they feel bound topraise herhe inwardly commented. After all, if she could be brought to love Allan as Allan loves her, then, I say, Allan might do worse; but if she marries him, as she will do, because she is driven to it, because there is no alternative which her pride could toleratein this case Allan will enter not purgatory, but hell itself, when he enters the estate of holy matrimony; and it were better for him to hang a millstone round his neck than such a wife. What is all this to me P Nothing! only Allan is the one being in the world whom I love, and I cannot have him made miserable. In one way or another I can prevent this marriage, if needful. So Mr. Smith settled matters in his own mind: having done so, he did not perhaps reconsider either his resolutions or their mo- tives: he strove with might and main to gain influence over Glare. More covertly and subtlely than at first, and always on his guard before Allan, he contrived to harass and weary her, putting a sting into his words or his manner constantly, yet so cunning a sting, and so cunningly concealed, that often when she afterwards picked his words apart and analyzed his manner, she would wholly fail to discover what it was that had wounded herwhere was what had wounded her. Nevertheless, wounded she was often, stung to the very quick sometimes, irritated, be- wildered; yet she still believed that she was playing a part, striving for the difficult and only possible revenge. And, of course, the more difficult the battle, the more she set her heart and soul on victory. She looked back to her formex monotonous life with distaste; just now she was interested, ex~ cited; there was always something to look forward to; she could hardly tell whether there was more pain or pleasure in the ex- citement, but she would not, if she could, have changed it for the life that had preceded it. For the present she avoided looking to any future beyond that of the next encounter with Mr. Smith, the next day, or the next week; how things were to end between Allan and herself she would not consider, much less decide. Even on wet days, or during the hours that were too hot to be passed outdoors, she seldom sought her own room or her own oc- cupations now; she played chess with Allan, Mr. Smith looking on, losing no opportunity for a bitter witticism or pungent joke at her expense, if it could be indulged in in a way that should not attract Allans notice; some- times she accompanied Mr. Smith on the piano when he sang. He had, as Allan had assured her, a wonderfully rich and mellow voiceso much so, that it seemed as if all the sweetness that should have mellowed hi. nature had been concentrated in this organ, When she did this, she was generaUy sub- jected to some implied reproach for want of taste or of accuracy. Though she possessed, and knew that she possessed both, Mr. Smith could make her feel like a blundering schoolgirl in fear of a strict master. Some- times Allan and Mr. Smith read aloud by turns, while Mrs. Andrews knitted and Glare idled over a piece of embroidery, in which she had lost all pleasure since Mr. Smith had condemned both its design and execu.. tion, but which she would not abandon. One morning when they were so occupied, Mr. Stanner, who did not often form a mem- ber of the party, came into the room, the county paper in his hand, evidently under some excitement. Old fools certainly are worse fools than young fools. he said. There is that old fool, Lord , mentioning a neighboring nobleman, has married a ballet-girl-.-.a 15 16 pretty child of nineteenhe being eighty, if a day. Did you ever hear of anything more scandalous, more disgraceful ? Than her conduct? The little mercenary wretch! No, certainly! answered Mr. Smith, promptly, before any one else could speak. Mr. Smith was peculiarly out of hu- mor to-day; perhaps he had some secret cause for exasperation. Than his conduct, sir, I mean, Mr. Stanner replied, almost fiercely. Bringing disgrace, distress, contention into a noble family. Rather selfish conduct, certainly, at his age; he might have got through his few re- maining years without the new toy; but others have done likewise, others will do likewise; no use to make a noise about it. The girl was what tbe world calls virtuous, of course, or he would not have needed to marry her. But it is, I hold, the girl whose conduct is really to he condemnedselling her youth and her beauty to an old Perhaps, poor thing, she had great temp- tations, said Mrs. Andrews to lift her family out of poverty, ennoble herself, and Clare had not dared to speak. Ennoble herself! scoffed Mr. Smith; then seeing that gentle little Mrs. Andrews, to whom he was always comparatively gentle, looked frightened at his vehemence, and re- membering that she was not his adversay, he said, Forgive my savageness, but I think that any woman who gives herself away for anything but mere and absolute love, under any circumstances, degrades herself beyond hope of redemption becomes about the meanest and most pitiful thing on Gods earth. Clares face blanched; the color fled even from her lips. Allan sprang up and was about to speak when Mr. Stanner interposed. Gently, gently, Mr. Smith. Your language is rather too forcible for a gentleman to use in the presence of ladies. Perhaps then, sir, I am no gentleman. Mr. Smiths smile, as he added, Indeed I often think that, with all my brain-culture, I remain as much a boor at heart as was my father before me, re-assured Mr. Stanner, who, at his first words, had a sudden and dreadful vision, in which figured seconds, and duelling-pistols, and his own corps& ly- ing in a certain little glade of the near forest, ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. where, if tradition spoke true, other such sights had been seen before. When Lady the ci-devante ballet.. girl, is a widow, it ~vill bc shown that many gentlemen are not of Mr. Smiths way of thinkingshe will have many suitors, M~ Stanner remarked. Mean curs, whom it would give me the greatest satisfaction to horsewhip. By the by, Allan, in an article in that magazine you have in your hand, I saw an astounding state- ment. Give it me a momcnt, that I may read the passage. Here it is It might be rash to marry a woman for her beauty and accomplishments, if she and her intended husband were both entirely without means; but a man would indeed be a wretched cur who preferred an ugly and vulgar woman with 30,000, to an accomplished and beau- tiful woman who had but 5,000 (so far so good, but observe this saving clause; evi- dently the ~vriter felt alarmed at his own rash position, at his enthusiastic unworldliness), supposing his own prospects to be reason~ big good. I do think this the very sublime of bathos. It certainly seems so much so that I should charitably suppose some misprint or misconception of the writers meaning, said Allan. The thing implied, of course, be- ing that a man whose prospects are not rea- sonably good is not to be condemned as a wretched cur if he takes the ugly. and vul- gar possessor of 30,000 instead of the beau- tiful and accomplished, hut poverty-stricken, woman who has only 5,000. Of course, if a man worships Mammon and worldly sue- cess, if the writer recognizes these as the true gods who are to he served, there is nothing so monstrous in this Any woman, I am sure, would agree with us, that such a man, whether his prospects are reasonably good or not, is a wretched cur. No doubt any woman would theoreti- cally agree with me that a woman who gives herself away for anything hut love, as neces- sarily degrades herself as a woman, be she who or what she may, who gives herself away for lovelet the man he who or what he may, prince or ploughmanennobles her- self. Dear me, dear me, Mr. Stanner ex- claimed, your views are very extraordi- nary, Mr. Smith; rather dangerous, too. Would you have a peeress marry a peasant? ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. Do you hold that she would ennoble herself say. You would like to write here; I will by so doing? Mr. Stanner smiled blandly, not disturb you. thinking those questions very neatly put, She pushed the inkstand and blotting- and quite unanswerable. book towards him and rose. Pushing them If the peeress loved the peasant, certainly, from him, he said, yes. XVhy not? What is a peeress but a I did not come here to write my letters; woman, a peasant but a man? and is not I came here because I wished to speak to any man in some way superior to any wo- you. man? So I say, that if the peeress could Clare was forced to remain; as she sat love the peasant purely and truly, she would I down again, she sighed involuntarily, as with be eanobled hy so loving. Love is a wo- a premonition of weariness to come. mans only power and only glory. An un- You already think me savagebrutal, loving woman is an incomplete, most poor, Mr. Smith began. I am going to be even and quite unharmonized creaturemiserable more so than usual, if plain speaking implies in all senses. those amiable qualities. I warn you, there- Mr. Smiths eyes were on Clares face as fore, to gather together all your forces, Miss he finishedshe felt them burning there; ~Vatermeyr. hers had been cast down; she had shrunk from Indeed, I have none this morning. I speaking, feeling most unsafe even when si- am tired from our long ride yesterdaynot lent, and as if a word might draw down upon well; I have a headache. her some intolerable avalanche. When he You are dropping the Amazons and ended, she felt compelled to raise her eyes to taking to the womans weapons, I see. If his; he was startled at their expression. A you will be as vlain in your answer as I in new somewhata want, a despairhad wak- my question, I shall not trouble you many kened within her. It was dumb and blind, moments. how long do you mean to play She was unconscious of it as yet; but it lent with Allan as a cat plays with a mouse P a new meaning to her facegave it some- thing of pathos he had not seen in it before. Nobody answered Mr. Smith: Mr. Stan- ner contented himself with a shrug and a look across at Mrs. Andrews, meant to ex- press his fear that the poor fellow was not quite sane. CHAPTER VIII. THE longer the warfare lasted, the weaker grew one of the combatants; till at last it was little but silence and meekness with which Clare met the attacks of her adversary, while towards others she became more and more irritable, daily capable of less self-con- trol. One morning she grieved Allan by a rebuff more than usually harsh, for which her heart reproached her as soon as she had given it; his crime having been that he had asked her to ride alone with him, Mr. Smith professing that business would keep him in the house. Allan was goneClare sat alone in the li- brary, occupied by bitter thoughts, when Mr. Smith came into the room. Clares heart sank when she saw him seat himself at the table by which she sat. You have letters to write, I heard you THIRD BEllIES. LIVING AOL 965. When will you make an end of your sport and his misery P What right poor Clare began, but words failed her. Lashing himself into fiercer indignation with each word, Mr. Smith delivered a tirade, mostly of abuse of womankind, and of praise, that knew no measure or stint, of Allan. It was better, he ended by saying, that a thousand women should weep their souls outif; indeed, women had souls, which he was inclined to to doubtthan that one tear should be wrung from such a heart as Allans. When he had finished, and looked at the beautiful woman before himsaw how she was moved and shakeneven Mr. Smith felt that perhaps he had said too much. When Clare spoke, the words were the in- voluntary expression of thought. What is it in Allan that makes you love him so well? Again that pathos of want and of (lespair looking out from Clares face. I love him because The look he had met had somewhat disturbed Mr. Smith he spoke less vehemently, at first almost with hesitation. I love him because he is worthy of lovegenerous, just, gentle, firm because I have tried him and found him true: I love him because 1 have served him, 18 ALL IN THE WRONG; on, THE TAMER TAMED. and because, by being wbat be is, he has i dered wbat be could say or do, he heard the rendered me incalculable service. room door close: he looked roundClare I wish I were dead and forgotten, said was gone. Clare. If I were dead and forgotten, then Mr. Smith appeared to have a great deal this idol of yours might be happy. It is all to think about; as he thought, the expres- bitterness and weariness I wish I were sion of his face changed continually; once dead and forgotten. For once you can wish or twice a deep red flush crossed his brow. as I wish. I could rest if I were dead and He certainly wrote no letters that morning, forgottenif you had ceased to hate me and though he sat pen in band and paper before Allan to love me, I could resL But, she him for some hours. added, after a pause, if Allan is all you Clare was not visible again that day.. The say, why cannot I love him? headache of the morning was much worse Because you are not worthy of him by dinner-time; she was suffering very not worthy to love him. Allans wife will acutely, Mrs. Andrews said, and seemed not resemble you! feverish. If she is not better before night, She felt humbled to the dust by his con- I shall send for the doctor. L is a great tempt. drawback to living so far from a town that What, then, am I? sbe asked, with a one is so far from good medical aid. Glare sort of horror of the being who excited such cannot endure our village practitioner. 8corn. Is Miss Watermeyr subject to attacks The most pitiable thing in creation, per- similar to this? Mr. Smith asked. haps, if it were not for the mischief of which She used to be; but they were gener- your kind are capable,~~a selfish, proud, ally brought on by agitation and excitement heartless woman. of a painful kindsuch as, poor child, Mrs. You are cruel and unjust, Glare began, Andrews added, turning to Allan, she used trembling like an aspen as she spoke, so that to have far too much of in her fathers life- her words seemed rather shaken out than time. uttered. You know nothing of me, for from CHAPTER IX. the first your eyes have been darkened by GLARE was ill for a few daysnot danger- hateful prejudice. I am not heartlessI ously or seriously; but when she came down- feel that I could love; and if I loved, I would stairs again, everybody thought her wonder- rejoice to lose myself in what I lovedto fully altered in so short a timepale and have my pride trampled out of me. But how thin, and altogether subdued in look and can I love Allan in this wayAllan, who is manner. During her illness, Allan did not always at my feet, and has no will but mine? find much consolation in Mr. Smiths society. If I am a tyrant, he makes me one: if he Mr. Smith was moody and bitter beyond his were more manly, I could be more wo- wonttormented by a perpetual restless- manly. ness, which drove him out night and day. You could perhaps more easily (for in- Allan! he broke forth one morning, stance) love me for hating you than Allan when are you going to end this ?to have for loving you. your fate decided? Sir! this is too much! you go too far Under all the circumstances, it would in injury and insult! Glare spoke those be most ungenerous to press matters, though, few words after a wild struggle; then, hid- of course, the suspense is hard to bear. I ing her face in her hands, burst into an ir- believe that a struggle is going on in poor repressible passion of tears. Glares mind, between her old affection for Who was vanquished now? me and her natural rebellion against the Mr. Smith found himself in an embarrass- cruel and injurious way in which her father ing positionperhaps he had never caused tried to insure our marriage. I feel that a woman to cry before: he made a hasty this is enough to make her dislike me; but movement towards Glare, then he turned I trust to time and patience to bring back away to the window. lie was ready to the old happy state of things. apologize, to humble himself, to do any- I am afraid you deceive yourselfbe- thing to stop that passionate weeping; but guile yourself with false hope and vain while he looked out on the terrace, and pon- trust. ALL IN TIlE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. Perhaps. Time will show. I begin to think that I had better be off. You will not leave us yetnot so sud- denlyjust as Clare is beginning to get over your waysbeginning, I do think, really to like you. Suppose I return the compliment, and begin really to like Miss Watermeyr. What then? My dear old fellow, I should be glad.~ Allan met his friends look with such a clear brow, such a friendly eye, there wa~a no pos- sibility of doubting his sincerity. Allan, you are a noble fellow !grand and guileless as a knight of old. But, my dear boy, idleness for long is intolerable and impossible to me. I must go back to work soon. Let it be an indefinite and receding soon, then. Had Mr. Smith satisfied his con- science by this light skirmish on the borders of confession? If so, it was easily satisfied. It was on the afternoon of this same day that Mr. Smith came upon Clare unexpect- edly, where she sat with a book on her knee, on one of the curiously contrived garden- seats, in the profound shade of the yew-tree walk: her face, as he saw it in profile against the dark background, looked very white and meek. Perhaps if I free my conscience by mak- ing an honorable apology, I shall be more at ease, thought Mr. Smith, as he approached Clare. Concluding that she was weak and nervous still, he begged her pardon for hav- ing startled her when he saw that she trem- bled. I am not on hostile but on penitential thoughts intent, he said. Last time we spoke together I Say nothing about that, if you please. Do not let us refer to the past. You cannot forgive me then? Oh, yes, if I have anything to forgive and she held out her hand. If you have anything to forgive !you have not only forgiven, but forgotten, then, he said, with a grave smile that was almost sweet, as he clasped the offered hand. Forgotten! she repeated, with a vivid blush. I have had so much to think of I am perplexed, driven aboutI want coun- selI want help to do what is right. You could give it me if you wouldwill you? No one else can; they are all blinded by their preconceived ideas of what is for my good. May I ask your advice? She looked up at him; let her hand for a momentwhite and light as a snow-flake touch his sleeve. Do not try my endurance too far, he said, in a hoarse, hurried way. Oh, no. I am trying, like you, to think only of Allans good and happiness. Ho looked at her sharply; but in her face, agitated and intent, he could see no sign of irony; and, indeed, why should he have sought for any? People always think seriously when they are ill, I suppose, according to the old prc& erb,she smiled a twilight sort of smile. I have been thinking seriously about my lifewhat the good of it ishow I can make it of any good to anybody. I feel now that I can never be happy, but I should like to make some one else happy. If I try with all my heartgive all my life to itdo you think I could make Allan happy? XVhy does she feel she can never be happy? mused Mr. Smith. By marrying and not loving him? he asked, aloud. By marrying and relearning to love him. I did love him, dearly. Why should I not again? Will it he safe for him that I should try? Can I make him happy? You seemed to think I could not; but then you were angry with me, and not quite just. Do you say the same now? It is as hard to some men to speak the truth, when truth and self-interest have but one voice, as to others to speak truth when truth speaks with one voice, self-interest with another. Miss Watermeyr, some demonyour evil genius or minehas led you to me for counsel. There is only one way in which I can answer you,by showing you how fit an adviser you have chosen. I warned you not to try my endurance too far. I am not a man of iron or stone he possessed him- self of her hand, and looked right into her eyeshis hand and his glance seemed to scorch her; she shrank from them inwardly, the more that he seemed to be in passionate earnest; not taunting and mocking her, as she could almost have believed sooner than believe that he loved her. Do you not 20 ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. feel that you are tempting me beyond what a man can endure P Do you not know that you are trying to deceive me and yourself? You cannot love Allan againyou know that you cannot. You know that you love meyes, me! You do not dare deny it, Clareyou do not dare deny it. And I traitor as I amI love you with a love that has burnt up the unselfish love of which I made my boasta love of which it is a shame for me to speak, and for you to hear: but I love you, Clare, I love you. Having wrung her hands in his till she could have screamed with agony, he threw them from him and left herleft her literally stunned and breathless. For a long timeshe could not tell how longshe remained where he had left her; then, like one who has had a blow and got a great hurtcold, sick, bewilderedshe groped her way through the shade and the blinding sunshine till she gained her own room. He loved her! Well! Was the con- sciousnesseither for hates sake, as re- vengeor for loves sake, as satisfaction sweet? CIAPTER X. ALLAN, meeting Mr. Smith just after his interview with Clare, could not help noticing the unusual excitement shown in his face and manner. To Allans question as to what was the matter, Mr. Smith ans~vered I have been tempted by the devil, and the devil had the better of me. Do not touch me, boylet me ~ But Allan, who did not know if this were earnest or some bitter jest, passed his arm through his friends, and held him fast. What has happened? Something, I am sure. Do not jest with me. Tell me what has happened? A mere triflea most ordinary occur- rence. A man who thought himself of stain- less honor and disinterestedness, has proved himself a selfish traitor. A mere trifle. Quite a jesting matter. Mr. Smith laughed. We are long past the dog-days, or I should be alarmed for your sanity, Allan said. I am not mad, most noble Allan. John, my dear fellow, speak to me so- herly. What has occurred? have you had bad news? To whom did youwho is the traitor? Listen and judge. But Mr. Smith paused a while, choking down some pang of bitterness, before he continued. I am just come from your Cousin Clare. I found her in the yew walk, and left her there. I love her; I have told her so. He looked in Allans faceit whitened to the lips, and the features sharpened. And Clare? was all Allan said. Loves me. Beggar and blackguard as I am, she loves me. She told you so? Let me remember. No not in words. But you do not doubt it? I do not doubt it. Take your hand from my arm, boy; let me go. Allan paid no heed; arm in arm they walked on in silence; a low, sardonic, self- scorning laugh from Mr. Smith was the first sound that broke this silence. You have been amusing yourself at my expense in rather a sorry manner! Allan said, as this sound roused him from the sort of nightmare in which he had been walk- ing, and raised a sudden hope in his mind. Would to God it were so! It is not. Let me goI say, let me go. I shall hate you now, Allan; now I have injured you. Let me go. Mr. Smith spoke fiercely, and struggled to release his arm from Allans hold; but the clutch that held him, mechan- ical and almost involuntary as it was, was like the convulsive clutch of the dying; he could not escape from it. You shall not hate me! Allan said, firmly. I will let you go, for I want time to thinkbut not till you have promised to do nothing rash to sleep under that roof at least one night longer. I promise anything to get away from you. Allans hold relaxed, and Mr. Smith was off towards the river. A few moments afterwards, a boat shot swiftly forth from the alder creek. Allan watched it fly down the river, disappearing, to appear again in one shining reach after another. Allan watched without knowing that he watched: the rhythm of the oars gave rhythm to his thoughtsif what went on within him, beat- ing in his brain, hammering at his heart, could be called thought. I ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. Of course there was pain, exceeding bitter pain, dominating all. The river looked like a chain of pools re- flecting the last light of day, while darkness had settled down upon the woods and plain, when the boat came back. Allan had seen it, a black speck upon the gleaming water, a long way off: he was at the landing-place when it came in. I am glad you are back at last the river is not safe in this uncertain light. He helped to moor the boat, then led the way to the house. Mr. Smith staggered rather than walked. Allan was not sorry to see how thoroughly used up and tamed he was. When they entered the library, Mr. Smith threw himself into a chair, laid his folded arms on the table, and his head upon them: he had not spoken. Leaving him so, Allan went to look for Clare. Till dusk she had been locked, into her own room; by that time the storm had spent itself for the present; she had washed out the worst sting and stain, quenched the first burning sense of insult, and was com- paratively calm. Allan found her in the Un- lighted drawing-room, to which she had come for space to move and breathe. Sev- eral of the many lattices were open wide, the stars looked in upon her, the summer wind whispered to her without all was peaceful, with a holy peace. Clare had walked to and fro till she was tired; she was leaning in one of the windows, looking out, when Allan came in: he was close to her be- fore she knew it. They could each see the others face by the starlight, as they stood there close to the window; pale, resolute young faces were both. Sister Glare, my poor little sister Clare, Allan said, speaking to her, as he had never spoken before, as a gentle-hearted elder brother to a suffering sister. With a low cry Glare leant towards him he opened his arms she rested her head against his breast; there he held her pressed against his heart, as he thought, for the last time. Glare clung to him, and her tears fell again, but very softly; she was soothed and com- forted inexpressibly soothed and com- forted; and yet something in Allans tone, something in his face, seemed to penetrate to her hearts core, paining her with such aching, boding pain as one feels when a loved voice says Farewell, and we know that for us can be no well-faring when that voice is no longer heard. You need not speak one word. Trust all to me: I know all; you need not speak one word, Allan said. Then Glare lifted her head, looked up into his face: he did not read her face aright; to her his seemed as the face of an angel. Come with me now, he whispered; she obeyed him unhesitatingly, with no thought of where he would take her, only feeling that she might follow him anywhere. But when he opened the library door, and she saw the lamplight falling on Mr. Smiths bent head, she shrank back, clinging to Al- lan. Go to him, Glare comfort him you only can, Allan said. lie led Glare for- ward with gentle violence, disengaged him- self from her hold, disregarding her low- sl)oken entreaty, Do not leave me, perhaps not hearing it, he ~vent away. Mr. Smith had looked up, when the door opened, vacantly, stupidly, at first, then he sprang up, exclaiming Allan, you are m~d! what are you doing? But passion- ate hope flamed up in his eyes as he spoke, and looked at Glare. Glare stood motionless just where Allan had left her. In spite of eyes reddened by weeping, and cheeks tear-stained and blood- less, yet not whiter than her lips, she had perhaps never looked so beantiful. When she spoke, it was with the coldest gentle- ness. I did not know where my cousin was bringing me! I can only guess under what mistake he brought me hereperhaps it is as well as it is. You told him all that passed this afternoon? I told him that I loved you, and had confessed it. I told him what, by your man- ner, I fancy you are going to deny now, that you love methat you had not confessed it in words, but that I did not doubt it: nor, if you now deny it, shalk I now doubt it: I shall only think that your pride, being too little, thinks the sacrifice too great. He was stung by her changed manner, which showed him his lost supremacy. Then my cousin renounces me gives me up to you, believing that I love you. Believing that you love me, he leaves you free to marry me. Of this, that you 22 ALL IN THE WRONG; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. would marry me, I had never dreamt, wildly as I may have dreamt. I should have been far from here by this time, had not your cousin extracted from me a promise to re- main one more night under this roof. In remaining I had no hope. Wildly as I have dreamt, I did not, I repeat, dare dream that you would marry John Smith welinigh a beggar! Yet you dared tell me that I loved you! throwing the accusation at me in a way to make it most bitter insult. XVhen a man is maddened by self-re- proach and the conflict of passions, he can- not stop to be choice of manner or of words. To tell you of your love and of mine was one thing; to ask you to marry me, knowing as I do the conditions on which You heap one insult after another upon me,but perhaps I have merited them all. I do not wish to be harshI have cause enough to be humblebut you cannot deny that you have loved me, he demanded. I confess that for some time I half be- lieved that I might come to care for you. I believed it till this afternoon. I must con- fess more, and what is far more to my shame, that before I believed it possible that I should care for you, I strove to win your admiration to fascinate you, even to make you believe that I loved youfrom motives of revenge. My revenge has recoiled on merecoils on me doubly. I have wronged you, and you have done me service, taught me many lessons. I must ask your pardon; I do so very hum- 1~lynot as I could have done, had you acted differently; but still very sincerely and very humbly, I desire your forgiveness of any in- jury I may have done you. Imprecations were on Mr. Smiths lips, but there was something pure and noble in Clares face that checked them. Refusals to believe the truth of what she said he could not bring himself to utter, for there was something calm and truthful in Clares man- ner that, against his will, impressed him. A few seconds Clare waited to see if he would speak; he did nothe could n9t; so she Jeft him, going straight to her own room, to which she presently summoned Mrs. An- drews. I have been false, and I have been fooled, was Mr. Smiths explanation to Al- lan fooled by a woman, and false to my friend. I am learning to know myself. It was quite fair, your cousins game. Tell her I said sothat she has my forgiveness, if she cares for it. Now if this were a comedy, I see an opening for a fine wind-up. It would turn out that I had been a most subtle and successful metaphysician, whose skill was only exceeded by his benevolence that my only aim had been, by contrast, to win your ladys heart to you. Would to Heaven it were so! I began by trying to play Provi- dence for your benefit certainly; but in real life circumstances are apt to sway the man more than the man circumstances. False to my friend, fooled by a woman; these two little facts from the history of the last few weeksmonths, which is it PI will lay to heart. Allan did and said all that was manly and Christian, striving to soothe the pangs of mortification and self-reproach, which he knew were indeed, to such a nature as his friends, more bitter than death; but the present result of his efforts was to aggravate rather than assuage the fierceness of these pangs. You heap coals of fire on my head, were Mr. Smiths parting words. Having seen his friend off,driven him to the nearest railway station,Allan on his re- turn was met by the news that Clare had left her home, with no intention to return to it. Mrs. Andrews was her accomplice: she had gone, properly escorted and attended, to some of Mrs. Andrewss friends in the north, people in humble circumstances; with them she was to remain till she could meet with a suitable situation as governess. Clare had left a letter for Allan, explain- ing why she acted thus, telling him that it would he useless for him to try to learn where she wasuseless for him to try and change her resolution or frustrate her plans. I am not worthy of you, Allan, or I should have loved you in spite of everything. I am not humbled enough yet, orI will not say what I was going to say; but I know I am not worthy of you, and should not make you happy. When you have been married some years, and I am an old maid, I may per- haps come and live in that little West-End Cottage which my father ordained should be my home in such case. Till then we will not meet. It was no use for Allan to storm or to en- treat; Mrs. Andrews was a trustworthy ac ALL IN THE wRONtJ; OR, THE TAMER TAMED. complice; for the present she would not re- veal the secret of Clares hiding-place. Three months with those poor people in the north, to whom she was nothing hut a governess out of place, some experience of the life of a governess, and then Pa most lame and impotent conclusiona humiliat- ing surrender. Like a heroine, she battled with the growing certainty that she loved her Cousin Allan passing well, with love of men and women when they love the best; that she reverenced him as nobler, wiser, betterfar nobler, far wiser, far bet- ter than herself; that to submit to him with absolute submission, to depend on him with absolute dependence, would be rest and happiness. She battled with herself she mistrusted herself she suffered greatly. When she had left home, she had begged Mrs. Andrews not to mention Allans name when she wrote; she began to think that she must recall this requestthat she could no longer bear this silence. One dreary winter night she sat alone in a large, bare schoolroom,writing to Mrs. An- drews, when a visitor was announced. She had given in; she had just written Allans name. Where is he? How is he? Oh, tell me something about him! she had written. The door opened; she looked up; there stood Allan. Must not Clares pride have become very weak, or her love grown very strong, if she yielded then Pthen, when the world might say that poverty and hardship and the han- kering after the flesh-pots of Egypt had brought her to her senses? She knew the world would have a right to say this. She humbled herself to this humiliationglad to find how light, for loves sake, it was to hear. The beautiful Mrs. Watermeyr of the next summer could hardly have been other than Clare, yet the beauty was of a different type softer, sweeter, more submissive. IN your Living Age, July 28, your correspond- ent, I. MC., has very properly notice(l the common error clearly sustained here by Lord Macaulay, that the great founder of Batavian liberty was a man habitually taciturn, or de- ficient in the gift of eloquence. In corrobora- tion of what yonr correspondent states, allow me to cite from Motleys Rise of the Dutch Republic. The power of dealing with his fellow-men he manifested in the various ways in which it has been usually exhibited by states- men. He possessed a ready eloquence,some- times impassioned, oftener argumentative, al- ways rational. His influence over his audience was unexampled in the annals of that country or age; yet he never condescended to flatter the people. He never followed the nation, but al- ways led her in the path of duty and of honor, and was much more prone to rebuke the vices than to pander to the passions of his hearers. He never failed to administer ample chastise- ment to parsimony, to jealousy, to insubordina- tion, to intolerance, to infidelity, wherever it was due, nor feared to confront th~ states or the peo- ple in their most angry hours, and to tell them the truth to their faces. Vol. 3, 62021. To save the house in which Goethe was born at Frankfort-on-the-Maine from further desecra- tion, it has been purchased by Dr. Volger, an eminent geologist, for the sum of 56,000 forms; and it is his intention to restore it to its original state, and thea hand it over to the German Hoebstift a fiourishi~ society for arts and sciences, of which Dr. is lie founder. Animated by similar feelings of piety, a friend of the late Robert Brown, Dr. Booth, has placed over the chimney-piece of the back room of 17 Dean Street, Soho (now occupied by an uphol- sterer), a tablet bearing the following inscrip- tion: This room, the library, and the adjoining one, the study, of the Right Honorable Sir Jos. Banks, Baronet, President of the Royal Society, and, after his death, of Robert Brown, Esq., F.R.S., Foreign Associate of the Academy of Sciences and the Institute of France, were for nearly seventy years the resort of the most dis- tinguished men of science in the world, the last assemblage of whom was on the occasion of the funeral of Mr. Brown, who expired on the 10th of June, 1858, in the eighty-fifth year of his age. M. ROBERT has communicated to the French Academy an account of the interesting discover- ies recently made in the Rue dEnfer, at Paris, during the process of lowering the street to the level of the Boulevard de Sdbastopol. These consist of a great variety of articles, mostly of Celtic and Gallo.Roman origin, including sev- eral flint implements similar to those found at St.-Acheul, near Amiens. The articles were all found in undisturbed drift, and are supposed by M. Robert to belong to the same period as the objects discovered many yeara ago near Many, Meudon, and Belleville, PSYCHOLOGICAL INQUIRIES. From The Examiner. P.sycholo~jicaZ Inquiries. The Second Part. Being a Series of Essays intended to ii- lustrate some points in the Physical and Moral History of Man. By Sir Benjamin C. Brodie, Bart., D.C.L., F.R.S. Long- man and Co. WHEN we set aside, with a few other not- able books too permanent in their. interest to demand instant notice, this most thought- ful little volume, published in the early sum- mer, none could know how soon we should be made to feel that the thinker is more transitory than his thought. At the age of fourscore Sir Benjamin Brodie, foremost and most liberal man of a most liberal profession, died last Tuesday week. Third son of a Wiltshire rector, who was magistrate and deputy-lieutenant of his county, Benjamin Collins Brodie was one of the men to be named to the credit of home teaching against those who are named as doing honor to the discipline of public schools. He was taught at home by his father until he went as a stu- dent of surgery to London, in the first year of the present century, ai~d at a time when surgical anatomy was the most popular sub- ject taught in the medical schools. 1-us fa- ther the rector had been son of a thriving army linendraper OP St. Jamess, Piccadilly. At the age of twenty-two Mr. Brodie became a demonstrator of anatomy at the Windmill Street Theatre, and continued in that office till, at the age of twenty-five, he was joint lecturer with his teacher, Mr. Wilson. At the same age, or when he was a year younger, Mr. Brodie, who had been for the last five years at St. Georges Hospital the pupil of Sir Everard Home, also took office at that hospital as Assistant Surgeon under. Sir Everard, who left to him the chief part of the hospital work. Thus Brodie, a teacher at the age when many but begin to learn, was in full work as surgeon at St. Georges and as anatomist in Windmill Street. At St. Georges not only was Sir ~verard Home too busy to attend with much diligence, but another of the chief surgeons was away with the army in Spain, and the care of his pa- tients also fell upon young Brodie. Here was work enough. He had been two years assistant surgeon at St. Georges before he thought of private practice, and had a name plate screwed upon the door of his lodging in Sackville Street. That was in 1809, when he was twenty-six years old, and had just passed from the office of demonstrator to that of joint lecturer in anatomy. Three years afterwards the Windmill Street Thea- tre was disposed of to Sir Charles Bell, who then superseded Wilson and Brodie as its teacher of anatomy. Young Brodie had pro- fessional connections able to advance his in- terests. The wife of Dr. Penman, the first accoucheur of the day, was one of the Rev. Mr. Brodies sisters, and her two daughters were both married to men of high mark in the profession. But his chief aid was in the familiar confidence of Sir Everard Home, who employed him as his assistant upon all occasions, and thus put him forward as his natural successor. This distinction he owed wholly to his own abilities. Through Home, Brodie became acquainted with Sir Joseph Banks, Sir Humphrey Davy, and other lead- ing men of science. It was when he was only twenty-eight years old, that he received from the Royal Society its highest honor in the Copley Medal for a Croonian Lecture, which began the series of his researches on the influence of the Brain upon the action of the Heart. This at once made his name known to the profession throughout Europe. The course of active physiological experi- ment thus commenced, was persevered in during the next fourteen years. As a sur- geon Mr. Brodie was distinguished in med- ical literature by works on the Pathology and Surgery of Diseases of the Joints, and on certain local Nervous Affections, which have helped largely towards the extinction of old rash methods of practice that would sacrifice a limb to an obscure pain. In 1816 when he had been seven years in practice, was thirty-two or three years old, and was beginning to thrive as a l)rivate surgeon Mr. Brodie married a daughter of Mr. Ser- jeant Se4llon, who has not survived him. Of his two sons, one is now the Professor of Chemistry at Oxford. At St. Georges Hos- pital Brodie remained for fourteen years as- sistant surgeon, but in 1822, when he was already in large private practice, he suc- ceeded Mr. Griffiths as full surgeon, and re- tained that office until 1840, when he retired, after thirty-two years connection with the hospital. About six years after his marriage his name was so well in fashion that the king privately preferred him to Sir Astley Cooper, and upon the retirement of Sir Astley Cooper 24 PSYCHOLOGICAL INQUIRIES. in 1828 Mr. Brodie was left indisputably the foremost of the London surgeons. On the death of Sir Everard home in 1832 Brodie succeeded him as Sergeant-Sur- geon to William IV., and soon afterwards he was made a baronet. As a surgeon, though skilful in operations, he most valued success in avoiding the knife, and held the mechanical dexterity of the anatomist to be of less account than sound perception of the character of a disease. His aversion for operations was not lessened during the last months of his life by the failure of those to which he submitted, first in 1860, for the improvement of his vision. They left him only a dim sense of light. His last illness dates from April of this year, when he was attacked by lumbago and fever. At mid- summer he began to complain of a pain in the right shoulder, which had been dislocated by a fall from a pony eight-and-twenty years before. The feverish pain increased. In September swelling began. The disease was malignant, and in six weeks it came to its and in death. Since his retirement from the active work of his profession, Sir Benjamin Brodie has given to the public those two volumes of Psychological Inquiries of which the second, with the year of his death on its title-page, has appeared only within the last few months. They are in the form of dialogue, and the preface to the part last issued thus explains their purport I have on the present occasion, as I had formerly, t~vo objects especially in view, one of these being to show that the solution of the complicated problem relating to the con- dition, character, and capabilities of man is not to be attained hy a reference to only one department of knowledge; that for this pur- pose the observations of the physiologist must be combined with those of the moral philosopher, mutually helping and correct- ing each other, nnd that either of these alone would be insufficient. The other object to which I have alluded is, that I would claim for researches of this kind that they should be regarded not as merely curious speculations, but as being more or less of practical importance to every individual among us, enabling us to under- stand to how great an extent we may con- tribute to the improvement of the faculties with which we are endowed, and to our own well-being in life. After a preliminary conversation on the study of the Physical and of the Moral Sci- ences, in which be distinguishes acutely be- tween the attainable and the unattainable ob- jects of inquiry, and upholds the pursuit of science for its own sake, the reasoner turns to the subject of Self-knowledge, and to the proposition with which he had closed his former dialogues,that no one can properly perform the duties he owes to society, who does not regard his own powers, his own dis- position, and his peculiar moral tempera- ment, influenced as it may be by his physi- cal condition and his mode of life, as a fit object of study, as much as anything exter- nal to himself. He then dwells first on the need of physical power for intellectual exer- tion. The mind works best in a healthy body. There is, however, no necessary connec- tion between robust health and superior in- telligence. How often do we see the former combined with stupidity and ignorance! Travellers rel)Ort to us instances of tribes of savages who intellectually appear not to be many degrees superior to the lower ani- mals. The same may be said of the poor deserted children who have been sometimes found leading a lonely life and maintaining a precarious existence in forests, apart from all human society. In his rude and uncul- tivated state, there is little in man either to respect or admire. That by which he is dis- tinguished, and which elevates him above all other creatures on earth, is his capability of improvement. The observation applies to individuals not less than it does to societies of men. Of two individuals, with perhaps equal capacities of mind, but placed under different circumstances as to education and as to the class of persons with whom they associate in early life, one may be found, after a lapse of years, to be comparatively stupid, while the other, as to intelligence, far surpasses what had been anticipated of him in the beginning. The faculties of mind as of body are strengthened, almost seem to be created, by exercise. Thus Our senses admit of being improved by cultivation as much as those higher fac- ulties to which they are subservient. The sailor distinguishes a ship in the horizon which is imperceptible to the landsman. The practised musician has a nicer perception of musical sounds, of harmonies and discords, than the inexperienced artist. The painter who has become a master of his art recog- nizes effects of shades and colors, and a miii- 25 PSYCHOLOGICAL INQUIRIES. titude of things besides, of which he took no cognizance at all when he first entered on his profession as a student. So also the wa- ter-drinking Hindoo finds a difference of taste in the waters of different springs, which are alike insipid to the drinkers of beer or wine; and the worker in jewelry and gold ornaments acquires a nicety of touch of which the blacksmith can form no concep- tion. It is, however, in those cases in which a particular sense has never existed, or has been permanently destroyed, that we learn to how great an extent other senses may be improved so as to supply the deficiency. In the earlier part of my life I made acquaint- ance with a blind fiddler, who wandered about the country by himself attending village fes- tivals; and I remember, among many other things which I have now forgotten, his hav- ing described to me how certain feelings, produced, as he supposed them to be, by the pressure of the air, made him understand that he was close to a large tree. Children who have been born blind, or who have be- come blind, learn to read with their fingers, by means of small embossed characters, in a shorter space of time than those who have their sight do by printed books. They be- come as familiar with the voices of their ac- quaintance as others are with their counte- nances; and it is really true that they not unfrequently wonder why, from being born blind, they should be held to be objects of commiseration. I remember seeing a little girl three or four years old, who had been totally deaf from the time of her birth, watching her mother as she was speaking. The intensely earnest and anxious expression of her coun- tenance when she was thus occupied was al- most painful to behold; but the result was, that by a close attention to the motion of the lips, and, as I presume, by observing those smaller movements of the features which are unnoticed by others, she was enabled to ob- tain a competent knowledge, not indeed of what her mother said, but of what she meant to say. Examples of this kind may be sup- plied without end. There are few profes- sions, and few pursuits in life, which do not require that some one organ of sense should be in a state of greater perfection than the rest; and each individual accordingly trains and educates th~at of which he is most in need, though he himself is unconscious that he is doing so. - The organs of sense are as much physi- cal machines as the telescope, or the micro- scope, or the ear-trumpet; and in like man- ner, as the muscles become more developed, more vascular, and larger by being exercised, so it is not improbable some such actual changes take place in the organs of sense also, rendering them more adapted to the purposes for which they are (lesigned. But this does not explain the whole. Any one who enters on the study of minute anatomy, or what they are pleased to call histology (we are very fond in these times of inventing new names for old things), by means of the microscope, is at first very awkward in the use of the instrument. By degrees he un- derstands it better, and is enabled to see what he could not see, or at any rate did not comprehend, in the beginning. So it is with regard to the organs of sense. We are clumsy in applying them to a new purpose, as we may be clumsy in our first attempts with an optical machine, but by diligence and attention we become more dexterous. What I am about to mention is no rare oc- currence, and will serve to explain what I believe to be the correct view of the suhject. A gentleman, who heard perfectly well with one ear, was thoroughly convinced that he had been entirely deaf with the other ear from the time of his being a child. By and by he became affected with a severe inflam- mation of the sound ear, and, when this had subsided, he discovered to his dismay that he had become quite deaf on this side also. After some time, however, on his being coin- pelled to make a trial of what he called his deaf ear, he found that it was not really so useless as he had supposed it to be. By constant attention to the neglected organ, his capability of hearing with it gradually increased, and to such an extent that, with the help of an ear-trumpet, he could hear sufficiently well for the purposes of conver- sation. From this the reasoning passes to the power of the will over the passions, to the power also of selecting those suggestions of the fancy upon which attention shall be fixed, and that are therefore to abide in memory. The power of continued attention differs very much in different indiyiduals, accord- ing to the original construction of their re- spective minds. Thus in the case of two boys, apparently under similar circum- stances, we may find one of them to have great difficulty in fixing his attention long enough to enable him to understand the simplest proposition in geometry, while the other accomplishes the same thing with no difficulty at all. But here also the defect under which the one labors may be in a great degree supplied by education and practice, while the advantage which the other natu- rally possesses may be lost by neglect. A young man who has not been trained to gain knowledge by reading, will complain that, af- ter he has read a few pages, his mind becomes 26 PSYCHOLOGICAL INQUIRIES. bewildered, and he can read no longer; and I have known even those who have been well educated originally to make the same com- plaint, when, from being constantly engaged in the active pursuits of life, they have for many years neglected the habit of reading. On the other hand, the boy who is supposed to have no 1ieadfor mathematics may by con- stant practice become a competent mathe- matician. It is the same in his case as in that of the imagination. The mind is kept fixed on one object, or succession of ohjects, by an effort of the will; and the more we are habituated to make the effort, the more easy it becomes to make it. Some pleasant and practical discussion on memory includes a good illustration of the association of ideas upon which it so much depends, in this experience narrated by a clergyman When I was about fifteen years of age I went, with my father and mother nud other friends, on a tour through Somersetshire; and having arrived at Wellington, where I had certainly never been before, we tarried an hour or two at the Squirrel Inn for refreshments. On entering the room where the rest of the party were assembled, I found myself suddenly surprised and pursued by a pack of strange, shadowy, infantile images, too vague to be called recollections, too dis- tinct and persevering to be dismissed as phantasms. Whichever way I turned my eyes, faint and imperfect pictures of persons once familiar to my childhood, and feeble outlines of events long passed away, came crowding around me and vanishing again in rapid and fitful succession. A. wild reverie of early childhood, half illusion, half real~y, seized me, for which I could not possibly account; and when I atempted to fix and examine any one of the images, it fled like a phantom from my grasp, and was imme- diately succeeded by another equally con- fused and volatile. I felt assured that all this was not a mere trick of the imagination. It seemed to me rather that enfeebled mem- ory was, by some sudden impulse, set actively at work, endeavoring to recall the forms of past realities, long overlaid and almost lost behind the throng of subsequent events. My uneasiness was noticed by my mother; and when I had described my sensations, the whole mystery was speedily solved by the discovery that the pattern of the wall-paper in the room where we were seated was ex- actly similar to that of my nursery at Pad- dington, which I had never seen since I was between four and five years of age. I did not immediately remember the paper, but I was soon satisfied that it was indeed the medium of association through which all those ill-defined, half-faded forms had trav- elled up to light; my nurse and nursery events associated with that paper pattern being, after all, but very faintly pictured on the field of my remembrance. The discussion of memory tends, of course, to a practical application of what is said to self-improvement. The sort of memory to cultivate is well defined If it be really true that the Spanish the- ologian, Francis Suarez, knew all St. Augus- tines works by heart, it does not appear that this was ever productive of any real good either to himself or to any one else. I did not myself know the individual; but I have been informed, on what I believe to be very good authority, of an instance of a young man who, after once or twice reading it, could repeat a rather long ballad, and yet, when he had done so, did not know the meaning of it. The memory which really leads to great results is that which is founded not on mere juxtaposition, but on the rela- tions which objects and events have to each other: one suggesting another, so that they present themselves not as insulated facts, but as parts of a whole. It is this kind of mem- ory which distinguishes the philosophical historian from the dry narrator of wars and treaties, and party politics; which opens to the view of the scientific inquirer those re- semblances and analogies by means of which he is enabled, in the midst of apparent con- fusion and complexity, to trace simplicity and order, and to arrive at a knowledge of the general laws which govern the phenom- ena of the universe; and which leads those whose genius takes another course to find in poetry its own exceeding great reward, or to look for the good and the beautiful in everything around them; at the same time that they become the benefactors of mankind, by transmitting wise thoughts and noble sen- timents to the generations which come after them. Much is well written of the education of circumstances and of the variety among the aptitudes of men. But at the root of all is watchful workdivested of all hindrances of self-conceit The most retentive memory, the quick- est perception, nay, even the soundest judg- ment, will of themselves lead to no grand results. For these not only is labor re- quired, but it must be persevering labor, not diverted from one object to another by ca~ price or the love of novelty, but steadily pursuing its course amid failures and disap.. PSYCHOLOGICAL INQUIRIES. pointments. In fact, if there be anything thus graphically describes the feelings with which deserves the name of genius, those which he had to contend: If I have any which you have rather incautiously desig- reputation in this way, I have earned it nated as minor qualities are an essential part dearly, for no one ever endured more anxiety of it. Without them there would have been and sickness before an operation; yet, from no advancement in Science, no improvement the time 1 began to operate, all uneasiness in Art; or, to express what I mean to say ceased. And if I have had better success in a few words, there would have been noth- than some others, I do not impute it to more ing of what constitutes the higher form of knowledge, but to the happiness of a mind civilization, that was never ruffled or disconcerted, and There is one other quality not less essen- a hand that never trembled during any op- tial than those of which I have just been eration. The commander of a merchant- speaking. For this I can find no other Eng- vessel labored under a frightful local disease, lish name than that of humility; though that of which it is unnecessary for me to describe does not exactly express my meaning. It is the particulars. On his voyage homeward that quality which leads a man to look into he was overtaken by a storm, during which himself, to find out his own deficiencies and it required the utmost energy and skill to endeavor to correct them, to doubt his own preserve his vessel and its crew. For two observations until they are carefully verified, or three successive days and nights he was to doubt also his own conclusions until he constantly on the deck, watching everything has looked at them on every side, and con- and directing everything, as if he had been sidered all that has been urged, or that in the most perfect health. Then the storm might be urged, in opposition to them. It subsided; he was again conscious of the suf- is such habits as these which lead to the ferings occasioned by his complaint, and he highest distinction, for they lead to a knowl- returned home to die. In one of our for- edge of the truth and to self-improvement. mer conversations, I referred to an observa- There is no other foundation for a just self- tion of Lord Chesterfield, that many a bat- confidence. In this sense of the word the tle had been lost because the general had a greatest men are humble. They may be fit of indigestion; and I presume that this proudthey are sometimes even vain; but may have been true as t~ such a Sybarite as they are never conceited. Vend6me is represented to have been, but I cannot believe it to be at all applicable to The third dialogue opens with discussion great officers, such as Napoleon, Nelson, or of the power we have of counteracting by a Wellington. voluntary effort any unwholesome influence Here we pause for the present, but we of outward circumstances on the mind, shall return to the book for a few more strains of its delightful wisdom. No one,until he has been, as it were, compelled to make the necessary effort, can be aware to how great an extent the power of self-control is within our reach. It is not much to say that one whose state of health renders him fretful and peevish in his own family, may show no signs of his irritable temper when in the society of those with whom he is less intimately acquainted. On much greater occasions than this, the well- trained mind will come forth triumphant from a contest with the physical infirmities of our nature. A barrister of my acquaint- ance, who afterwards rose to the highest honors of his profession, was subject to a neuralgic disease, which so afhcted him that it often happened, when he had to advocate an important cause, that he entered the court ia a state of most intense bodily suf- fering. But his sense of duty was greater than his sense of pain, and the latter was almost forgotten as long as the necessity for exertion lasted. The famous Cheselden, who at the same time that he was a man of sci- ence was also the most distinguished operat- ing surgeon of the age in which he lived, We return to this book for a few more nVs of the course of its argument for a mans studious inquiry into the extent of his own powers of self-management. The veri- est trifler has a meaning in his emptiness. and the used-up man here re-appears: the ennui caused by a superabundance of leisure, and the absence of demand for the vigorous exercise of any faculty, being rec- ognized as one of the real calamities of life. No practical weight is allowed to the doc- trine of a necessity th~tt governs actions, and we are reminded of the late Baron Al~erson~s words in a charge to a jury, The prisoner is said to have labored under an uncontrolla- ble impulse to commit the crime. The an- swer to ~vhich is that the law has an equally uncontrollable impulse to punish him. In short, whatever our speculative opin- ions may be, practically we are all constrained to acknowledge that, however much our in- 28 PSYCHOLOGICAL INQUIRIES. tellectual and moral character may be influ- enced by external causes, more depends on ourselves than on anything besides. This great truth cannot be too strongly impressed on the minds of younger persons by all those to whom the business of education is en- trusted, whether it be parents, or tutors, or religious instructors. The wise man, having once learned this lesson, continues to educate himself during the whole period of his life. Equally sound and practical is the refusal to assume that a mans intellectual faculties and his emotions and passions form two sep- arate and independent systems. One is as necessary to the other as the heart to the liver, of which, if you take one away, there is an end of the entire system. The mind may be in different conditions, and is constantly passing from one of these conditions to another; but it is always one and the same mind, and, in whatever state it may exist at the time, subject to the same influences. Thus, to take a familiar instance to which I have adverted in one of our for- mer conversations, in an aggravated case of gout, where there is an unusual accumula- f tion of lithic acid in the blood, the temper is peevish and fretful; fits of anger are pro- duced without any adequate provocation, at the same time that, the capability of contin- ued attention being impaired, the reasoning faculty and the judgment are rendered im- perfect. So, also, where, from the want of a due supply of food, there is an insufficient production of the nervous force, it is not in one respect, but in all respects, that the mind suffers. In the latter case the impoverished blood is deprived of those properties without which it is incapable of maintaining the func- tions of the nervous system; while in the former case it is not that anything is want- ing, but that there is an undue proportion of one of the materials of which the blood is composed, and that to such an extent that it actually operates as a poison. From this consideration follows a discus- sion of the power over the mind exercised by the state of the blood under the influence of wine or tobacco. Tobacco smoked in ex- cess Sir Benjamin thought more deleterious than opium, and more productive of disease. We have not space to pursue much farther the train of reasoning by Which one of the greatest of English surgeons, after many studies and the widest intercourse with men, summed up at fourscore, in the last year of his life, the wisdom he had acquired. He does not declare all vanity, but dwells upon the power each man holds over himself, in showing how the well-trained mind will come forth triumphant from a contest with the physical infirmities of our nature, and how it lies with ourselves to keep watch and ward over those common sources of happi- ness, mental and bodily health. The book is far too wise to be pedantic, and it touches upon fundamental truths with a simplicity that to the unthoughtful will sometimes make them seem commonplace. Of care of the bodily health, for example, Sir Benjamin wrote The subject has been treated of, in one way or another, by a multitude of medical writers, who tell you how to eat and drink and sleep, and everything else. But I do not much advise you to read their books, lest you might be perplexed by the discrepancy of the opinions which they contain. Thus I have in my mind at present three treatises on diet, in each of which there is a list of proscribed articles of food. But these lists are different, and if you were to adopt them all, you would find very little left to eat. Some very simple rules indeed are all that can be suggested, and each individual must apply them as well as he can to himself. A reasonable indulgence, without the abuse, of the animal instincts; a life spent in a whole- some atmosphere, and as much as possible in the open air; with a due amount of mus- cular exercise. Really there is little more to say. The melancholy dependent on deficient nervous power, curable not by mental effort, but by rest and proper food, is associated with the depression following excess in wine, opium, or tobacco, that has too rapidly ex- cited and exhausted nervous force. The de- ficient exercise of nervous force produces the depression of ennui in the unoccupied man, body and mind acting and reacting on each other. The chapter on Education, forming the fifth dialogue, is full of soundest thought. At the root of training of the young, Sir Benjamin, like a true man and sound phil- osopher, placed this To begin at the beginning. It seems to me that the first thing is that a young per- son should be made to understand the value of truth, not only that he should never deviate from the rule of telling the truth, but that he should on all occasions desire to learn the truth, and do this to the best of his ability, not considering whether the result will be agreeable and convenient or otherwise. Not ,only is this the surest foundation of the moral 29 30 virtues, but without it the exercise of the intellect, on whatever it may be employed, can lead to no satisfactory result. This, you may say, is a matter so obvious that it scarcely deserves an especial notice; and yet it is to the want of a thorough conviction as to the value of truth, and the amount of labor and caution required for its attainment, that we may trace a large l)roportion of the disappointments to which we are liable in the ordinary concerns of life, as well as the many erroneous notions which have been from time to time propagated, and the fact that many things which at various times have passed for knowledge in the world have proved in the end no better than a sham and an imposture. The next business of education is not so much to communicate facts dogmatically as to cultivate the poweis of attention, indus- try, and perseverance. Care must be taken also, throughout, to cultivate the imagination as the great, the transcendent faculty of the human mind. As the imagination is the essential part of the genius of the poet, presenting to him analogies and relations which are not per- ceived by ordinary minds, so it is the main instrument of discovery in science and of in- vention in the arts. To the philosopher who enters on a new field of inquiry, it furnishes those lights which illuminate his l)ath and lead him onward in his journey,fallacious lights indeed if he trusts implicitly to them, but far otherwise if he takes them for no more than they are worth, not supposing that they can in any degree supersede the necessity of strict observation and a hesitat- ing and a cautious judgment. Such is the history of all the great achievements in the inductive sciences; nor is it otherwise even with those sciences in which we ha,ve to deal, PSYCHOLOGICAL INQUIRIES. not with probabilities, but with absolute cer- tainties. How many crude notions must have passed through Newtons mind before he completed the invention of fluxions! So it is with all other human pursuits, whether it be in the case of Marlborough or Welling- ton arranging the plan of a campaign, or of Columbus directing his course over the hith- erto unexplored Atlantic Ocean, or of Watt engaged in the invention of the steam-en- gine. Wherever great things are accom- plished, it is the imagination which begins the work, and the reason and judgment which complete it. The book closes with two excellent dia- logues, one on mans place in the world, which treats in a liberal and philosophical sl)irit of natural theology and recent theo- ries ; the other on the possible advances of civilization, and the hypothesis of the in- definite perfectibility of the human race. Here Brodie held firm to the teachings of experience, and his little book ends by giv- ing a new turn to such speculation, in asking whether man be so perfect a crowning work that he may not, perhaps, be followed in pos- session of the earth by creatures standing higher in the system of the universe. But with this the mature and shrewd philosopher falls back upon the consideration from which he had set out, that it is for us to learn where our inquiries should end, and not to bewilder our minds by the endeavor to pen- etrate into regions beyond the reach of the human intellect. So ends a book of which the treatment corresponds to a subject that is defined by one of the imaginary speakers in the dialogue as not above the compre- hension of the humblest capacity, nor be- neath the notice of the loftiest intelligence., PROFESSOR BAduxe, connected with the United States Coast Survey, in a recent ar- ticle on the physiology of sea-sickness, ad- vances the idea that this torment of ocean trav- ellers is a disease of the brain, and not of the stomach. his view is that it is owing to the fact that the mind is not able to understand the varying motions of the vessel as rapidly as the senses feel them, thus causing a conflict of im- pressions, and a consequent affection of the brain, which in turn deranges the nervous sys- tern and produces nausea. As soon as the mind can conceive the idea of such motion as soon as it is felt, sea-sickness ceases. The deck is con- sequently the best place for one sufThring, as there the sight can be best educated to the move- ments of the vessel. A LETTER to the Pope has been published at Turin bearing the signatures of 8,948 of th~ Italian clergy, praying his holiness to renounce the temporal power. A GERMAN PRINCESS. From The Spectator. A GERMAN PRINCESS. ONE of the most extraordinary women of the last generation, who for many years, and during the most eventful epochs of European history, exerted an influence greater than that of reigning monarchs, the Duchess of Sagan, born Princess of Courland, died on the 19th September, at the Castle of Sagan, in Prussian Silesia. Princess Dorothea, of Courland, born August 21, 1793, was the youngest of four daughters of Prince Peter, son of the celebrated Ernest John de Biron, whom Anna of Russia raised from the dust to the highest dignities in the empire, giv- ing him the Duchy of Courland as but a slight token of her favor. Ernest John de Biron, with all his failings was not devoid of geniality; but his son Peter had little of him but his extreme physical beauty. By the will of his father Peter married in early life; but his most violent temper made his matrimonial state a very unhappy one, and he brought two wives to the grave before he was thirty years old. Then he made the acquaintance of Ann Charlotte of Medem, the daughter of a poor German nobleman, possessing a small property in Courland; and, attracted by her physical and mental charms, offered her his hand, which she ac- cepted. The offspring of this union were four daughters, who for a long time were held to be the most perfect beauties in Eu- rope. UnIting the charms of unusual intel- lectual capacity with the symmetry of cor- poral perfection, the fame of the four princesses of Courland spread through the whole of Europe, and poets came to sing their praises, while kings worshipped at their feet. All had numerous brilliant offers of marriage; but, by the advice of their mother, every one of the four prin- cesses made a love match, or what was held to be such. The eldest married a Count of Schulenburg; the second the Prince of Hohenzollern-Hechingen; the third a Duke of Ac& renza; and the youngest, Dorothen, the Count de Talleyrand-Perigord, nephew of the great Talleyrand, a general in the French army. It was this last-named lady who died but a few weeks ago as Duchess of Sagan, after as eventful a career as ever fell to the lot of duchess or princess. The union of Dorothen of Courland with the Count de Talleyrand, afterwards Duke de Dino, was not a happy one, though pro- fessedly a love match. The princess was only sixteen years old at the time of her marriage, which took place on the 22d April, 1809, and so full of radiant beauty, that after the first month of her arrival in Paris, crowds used to follow her carriage in the streets, wherever she went, and masses of people stood for hours under the burning sun, or in pouring rain, to get a glimpse of her sweet face. For awhile, the counts vanity was gratified by this adoration paid to his young wife; but, b1as~ in his inmost nature, he ended by getting tired of even this enjoyment, and before long treated the princess with utter neglect. The knowledge of this could not long be hidden from the gossippers of the salons, and had the conse- quence of bringing forward a host of open ad- mirers and amis,among them Prince Tal- leyrand. The great statesman was unable to hide his fervent admiration of his young niece, and, confiding in his relationship, of- fered her the protection of his name and position. Shrewd far beyond her age, the Princess Dorothea neither refused nor ac- cepted this protection; but while treating Talleyrand invariably as a kind and loving uncle, managed to keep him for some time at a respectful distance. This naturally in- creased the ardor of the enamored diploma- tist, who henceforth, and for the rest of his life, became one of the most faithful and sin- cere friends of the princess. Probably there was not a single being in the world to whom Talleyrand, in his later age, was so thor- oughly and so steadfastly attached as to his young niece. Dazzled at first by her ex- treme beauty, he was completely captivated, after somewhat fuller acquaintance, by the geniality of her intellect; to such an extent that not unfrequently her advice ruled the most important of his undertakings. An immediate point of sympathy between the prince and his niece was established in the dislike of both to the person and court of the emperor. The refined manners of Prin- cess Dorothea recoiled at the innate vulgar~. ity of the generals and field-marshals, and their low-born spouses, who gave the ton at the Tuileries; and the often coarse be- havior of the mighty Ca~sar himself ap- peared to her anything but imperial or he- roic. Being imprudent enough to give vent to these feelings in occasional speeches, the 81 32 A GERMAN PRINCESS. princess soon came under the notice of sovereigns entered France, taking their road Fouch~s myrmiclons, whose reports en- to the capital, where the great statesman raged Napoleon so much as to make him was waiting their arrival in the privy-coun- forget the respect due to a princely lady not cii of Marie Louise. In the middle of his subject. Naturally, therefore, the dis- March, 1814, a well-known Swiss gentle- like of Talleyrands niece to the emperor man, C~sar la Harpe, had a long interview soon grew into hate, fanned as the sentiment with Princess Dorothen, which was followed was by the cutting sarcasms of the arch- by his departure for the invading army, and diplomatist, in which he freely indulged in his meeting with an old pupil, no less a per- her presence. Added to this was the singa- sonage than Czar Alexander. On the 31st lar influence which Talleyrand exercised of the same month the Czar held his solemn over a number of ladies of the highest rank, entry into Paris, and went straight to the and which, reacting on the young Princess Hotel Talleyrand, where he took up his res- of Courland, made her the devoted adherent idence. A few hours after, there issued of his vast political schemes. On the com- from the mansion of the great diplomatist a pulsory retreat of the prince to his magnifi- document by which the crown of France cent castle of Valen~aybut shortly before was transferred from the head of Napoleon the prison of King Ferdinand VII. of Spain, I. to that of the Count of Provence, alia.~ and his brother, Don CarlosPrincess Dor- Louis XVIII. It was in the drawing-yoom othea followed him thither, determined to of Princess Dorothea that the paper fatal to enter heart and soul into his plans, and to the Napoleonic dynasty was signed by Prince assist them with all the means in her power. Schwarzenburg and the rulers of Russia and The ex-minister being too closely watched Prussia. by the spies of the Government to attempt Princess Dorothea accompanied Talley- even the slightest movement, it was left to rand to the Congress of Vienna, and not a her to organize a series of secret meetings little contributed in that brilliant assemblage of the enemies of imperialism, which were of princes and ambassadors, to the successes not without effect on the subsequent fate of of the great (liplomatist. Returned to France, Napoleon. The meetings were held alter- she obtained a separation from her husband, ~nately at the country-seat of the Prince of and thenceforth devoted herself entirely to Turn-and-Taxis and at the mansion of the the duties devolving upon her as presiding, Princess of Vaudemont, at Suresne, and led genius of her uncles household. Twenty to a connection with the Duke de Cond6 and years thus spent ended by giving her com- the Bourbons. While the conspiracy thus plete ascendency over the mind of the formed was progressing, news arrived of the prince, and a mastery over his will such as disastrous retreat of Napoleon from Russia, no one possessed before. When Talleyrand and the coalition of the great Continental was lying on his death-bed, as full of Powers against the long-endured supremacy ticism as ever, she insisted that he should of the Corsican conqueror. After a short become reconciled to the holy Mother Church. consultation with Talleyrand, Princess Dor- He smiled in answer, I have never been in othea hurried to Prague, in the neighbor- a hurry, yet always arrived in time. But hood of which city her mother possessed the princess would allow no more jests, and considerable estates. Before she had been forthwith introduced Abb6 Dupanloup, a many days at her chateau in Bohemia, Czar zealous missionary of the Church, since Alexander arrived with the King of Prus- then deservedly promoted to episcopal du- sin, closely followed by Prince Metternich. ties. Talleyrand, helpless like a child under There were long nightly conferences, the the burning gaze of his niece, repeated every upshot of which was the adherence of Ais- word dictated by the abb6, and on the morn~ tria to the declaration of war of the two ing of the 20th of May, 1838, with trembling northern sovereigns. Immediately after, hands, already in the agony of death, signed Talleyrands niece returned to Paris, accom- a paper by which he confessed himself a true panied by her mother and several new male Christian and faithful son~ of the Catholic servants, believed to be disguised noble Apostolic Church. When, a few days after, emigrants. Not many months had elapsed his last will and testament was opened, it before the victorious armies of the allied was found that Talleyrand had left the great A GERMAN PRINCESS. bulk of his fortune, amounting to near twenty millions of francs, to his beloved niece, Princess Dorothea. A man living in falsehood; yet not what you can cull a false man, says Thomas Carlyle, summing up his character. By a singular freak of nature and circum- stances, Princess Dorothen, having devoted the morning of her life to diplomatic in- trigue, was fated to give the evening to the passion of love. By the death of her elder sister, she became, in 1845, sovereign owner of the Duchy of Sagan, a mediatized princi- pality of about a hundred square miles, with some fifty thousand inhabitants, situated in Lower Silesia. Thereupon, the princess left France, and settled at the old Schloss of Sagan, a magnificent palace, surrounded by vast gardens, built by Wallenstein, and fitted up with all the pomp and splendor of a royal residence. In the course of the due visits of congratulation paid by the feudal lords of the neighborhood, Prince Felix of Lichnowsky made his appearance: the head of an old noble family, possessing large landed estates in Austrian and Prussian Silesia, and celebrated for the geniality of its members for several generations. The father of Felix, Prince Edward, gained a well-merited literary fame as author of a voluminous History of the House of Ikps- burg;~~ his grandfather was the friend and protector of Beethoven; and several other predecessors distinguished themselves highly both in the field and the cabinet. Prince Felix, born April 5, 1814, ran through a most romantic career in early youth. After having been a short time in the Prussian service, he went to Spain and offered his sword to the Pretender, Don Carlos; fought two years as general in the ranks of the in- surgents, and, badly wounded, retired to his estates to write Reminiscences of the years 1837 to 1839 by no means flatter- ing to the cause of I~on Carlos. He then offered his services to the Shah of Persia, and went half-way thither; but suddenly turned his head to Portugal in search of fame and adventures. The result was an- other volume of Reminiscences, and a number of duels, out of all of which he came victoriously. He then retired again to his estates, deeply involved by this time by his extravagances, and here made the acquaint- ance of Princess I)orothea. A tall, fine, THIED SEIUES. LIVING AGE. 968 and eminently handsome man, with a halo of romance around him, Felix of Lichnow~. sky made a deep impression on the l)rincess. She invited him to stay at her Schloss, and before long she declared herself, without hesitation, deeply and madly in love with him. Notwithstanding the difference of age, the princess being fifty-three and Prince Felix but thirty-one, he professed to reciprocate her feelings, and agreed to take up his abode at Sagan. The union of hearts was soon drawn still closer by a union of budgets. Prince Felix directed all his creditors to apply at the Schloss of Sagan for payment, and the princess was too much in love not to take the hint thus given, and paid bills to the amount of very nearly the legacy left to her by her great uncle. Wishing to distinguish himself in a political, career, Prince Felix entered the Prussian House of Lords in 1847, and achieved a considerable success as one of the leaders of the Conservative party. Un- happily, through the influence of the Duch- ess of Sagan, he was chosen the following year into the ~ttional Parliament at Frank- fort, where, with his Prussian-lord feelings, still unaltered, he found himself in the ranks of the ultra-Conservatives. There was a local insurrection at Frankfort on Septem- ber 18,1848, in the progress of which Prince Felix, in company with a friend, took a ride through the suburbs. Near the village of Bornheim he was attacked by a furious mob, torn from his horse, and, while trying to es- cape, shot through the breast. XVhen the fatal news reached the Schloss of Sagen, the princess locked herself up in her room, re- fusing all sustenance, and expressing her determination to follow her lover in death. However, the arrival of one of her sons shook her resolution, and time and change of scenery gradually lessened her immense sorrow, which she gently nursed by erecting numerous memorials of love within her parks and gardens. Felix-ruk, Felix- bank, and similar inscriptions throughout the splendid domain of Sagan, forever com- memorate the remembrance of Felix of Lichnowsky. Princess Dorothea, Duchess of Sagan, died, as already stated, a few weeks ago, on the 19th September last, at her royal resi- dence. She retained her extreme beauty almost up to the day of her death, and won.. NATIONAL POWERS COMPARED. 34 derful stories are told of the arts she em- the task has been entered into, it has not ployed to preserve the perfection of graces been well executed, on account of the exec- with which nature had gifted her. Her in- utants not having access to all the necessary tellect, too, was unimpaired to the last, and information, and not possessing the necessary the closing years of her career were occu- talents and experience. Perhaps of all the pied in the compilation of memoirs, destined eminent hands who could have embarked to see the light of day at the same period as in this labor, the most competent, all things the historical notes of Prince Talleyrand, considered, is M. Block. For being one of ordered, by solemn injunction, to remain the heads of the Statistical Department of undpened for thirty years after the death of France, he has at his disposition the very the writer. It is very likely, therefore, that best statistical data to be obtained in Europe, the year 1868 may reveal much that is yet and he possesses a high reputation for his dark in the history of Europe during the Na- accuracy as a statistician, and his skill as a poleonic period, showing how mighty events, writer on economic subjects. produced by the armed struggle of millions, The publication which M. Block presents under the guidance of military genius, have to us consists of a treatise and a series of been not unfrequently counteracted by the tables on the national forces of the European silent intrigues of a few bold and restless nations, and of a set of colored maps exetn- spirits. Even the Mephistopheles of the plifying, and, so to speak, condensing, the French Revolution, and arch-diplomatist of results presented. In volume the publica- the nineteenth century, must needs appear tion is small indeed.; but it contains a truly in a new light when seen under the inspira- prodigious mass of information. Strictly tion of the fair eyes of a German princess, speaking, the moral forces of a state are at iml)ortant in the constitution of its power as the material; and they ought, therefore, to have figured in this work. But M. Block has thought fit to abstain from dealing with From The Economist. them, because he says th& means do not Puissance Gomparee des Divers Etats de exist of weighing or measuring the moral lEurope. By Maurice Block. (French relations between men and between socie~ Edition, with an Atlas.) Gotha: Justus ties, and because also the material forces of Perthes. a country are an indication of its moral con- A cOMPARISON of the elements which con- dition. On this point, we take the liberty stitute the power of the different countries of dissenting from our author. Undoubtedly of Europe is of great economic and l)olitical the moral state of a nation cannot be incas- utility, and, though necessarily teeming with ured with the same mathematical nicety at figures, is even not without interest for gen- the material; but the degree of education eral readers, who regard books as instru- and of crime can be ascertained with accu- ments of amusement, not as supplying ma- racy, and theit are not wanting statistics reia~ terials for thought. Not only does such a tive to religion; and religious education and comparison determine the relative position crime are the most important elements in a of European States, but it is calculated to moral estimate. excite them to improvement in those respects Confined, however, as it is to material in which they are backward,and even the matters, the work of M. Block is of vast foremost among them are in some respects value. Not only does it fix the precise place not equal to others of much less iinl)ortance. which a European country occupies in tht The tusk of waking the comparison has been scale of material greatness,that is in ter- rarely undertaken, owing to its extreme dif- ritory, population, military and naval ~iowcr, ficuhy and aridity, arising from no two coun- finances, credit, agriculture, commerce, nay- tries keeping their statistics in the same way, igation, railways, manufactures, etc.,but it from very few having the same weights, makes known facts of ~hich very few people moneys, and measures, and from differ- have, we fancy, any idea. As an example of ences between nations being almost always the latter let us take population: If theqime. greater and more striking than ~the resem- tion were asked i~ whst European ooun~ b~ances. And on the few occaaioisaonwliioh poptilation increases th~. fastest, would n.~ NATIONAL POWERS COMPARED. nine persons out of ten be disposed to answer hug. Thus our commercial navigation (ton- Great Britain and Ireland? Yet M. Block nage of imports and exports) has increased shows that it is in Greece, and that four 83.3 per cent. in ten years (coasting trade not other countries outstrip ours. In the last included); but that of Austria has progresse4 thirty or forty years the annual average in- 180 per cent., of Holland 189.1, of Spain 113) crease of the population has been 2.16 per and even of France 88.5: and with regara cent. in Greece, 1.57 in Prussia, 1.39 in Nor- to the number of vessels, whilst our increase way, 1.17 in Sweden, and 1.12 in Holland, in ten years has only been 26.5 per cent., whilst in Great Britain it has only been 1.9. that of France has been 39.6, of Austria 31,9, Again, is it not the general conviction that of Holland 34.6, of Germany 122.3, and or the army in France in proportion to the pop- DeMnark 307. With the exception of Hol- nlation is greatly more numerous than ours? land we are the most hea~ily taxed people Yet M. Block shows that in 1861 we had in Europe, our average per head being in 13.1 soldiers per 1,000 inhabitants, ~vhilst French money 57f 12c, whilst in France the France had only 12.6. As regards the rela- average is only 49f 75c, in Austria 21f 37o, Vive positions of nations, ours on the whole and in Prussia 28f GOc. The expense of our has much to be proud of, but not perhaps so army and navy is truly enormous, as it ab- much as Englishmen fondly imagine. We beat sorbs not less than 73.8 per cent. of what ~e- all countries in the length of our railways, mains of the budget after the interest of the having 48.6 kilometres per 1,000 square kil- debt is paid. Even our formidable navy, on ometres; whilst Belgium, which comes next, which iv e rely so confidently, is not so strong has only 44.4; Ilohland next, 34.1 ; Switzer- as is thought. It presents 24 guns for the land, 20.5; and France only 16.9. Our credit protection of every 1,000 tons of merchant is superior to that of all other nations, lOOf shipping, but Italy has 37.2 guns for every rente (~4 per annum) of our debt being worth 1,000 tons, Greece 45, Portugal 39.7k Swe~ 8,066f (~122 12s); whilst the same sum in den and Norway 27.5, France 22.3. that of Denmark, ivhich comes next to us, is We have not thought it necessary to ver- only worth 2,630f; Belgium the next, 2,600f; ify these and other figures contained in M. Holland the next, 2,500f; and France the Blocks work, his well-known accuracy and next, 2,200f. Moreover, since 1847 we have conscientiousness being to us a full guaran- actually reduced the annual outlay for our te~ of their correctness. Our readers will debt, whilst other countries have added see from them that the work contains a per enormously to theirs, Frmce as much as feet mine of curious and valuable informs- 61.6 per cent.; Portugal, 89.6; Austria, 109, tion on matters of general importance, and Prussia,~ 110.9; and Spain, 217.1. In the tnat it throws new light on many of them, number of letters sent through the post of or iather removes the veil by which, from a flee, and which arc an indication not only of laige portion of the public, they have hith- the activity of the commerce but of the moi al ei to been covered. Such readers as are no~ virtues of a people, we are far ahead, having dispused to study figures, can by an inspec- on an average 1,907 per 1,000 inhabitants, tion ol the atlas obtain a correct idea of the whilst France has only 699, Prussia 609, piineipal results presented. In conclusion, Holland 492, and even little Switzerland, we express the wish that an English edition which comes immediately after us in the of this remarkable work may be l)roduced; scale, only 1,630. In some other respects f and we add thereto the suggestion that each also, we have reason to be satisfied with our map, instead of representing different coun- :rntional position. But on ivhat may be called tries in tints of the same color, should have the dark side of our accounts there are van- each country in a distinct color, in order to ou~ facts, and some of them are rather start- I be plainer. 36 PROPOSED MEDIATION WITH AMERICA. From The Economist, 15 Nov. PROPOSED MEDIATION WITH AMERICA. Tim Emperor of the French has long been most anxious to take the earliest op- portunity of endeavoring to persuade the American belligerents to come toterms, and has proposed to our Government and to that of Russia to join him in his concilia- tory overtures. The despatch in which M. Drouyn de ]Lhuys has embodied the yeas and suggestions of his master is no~ be- fore us. It is understood that the project has been somewhat coldly received by both governments and that the emperor is sur- prised and disappointed at such reception. Russia has not absolutely declined to join in the prol)osed measures, but neither has she accepted; and the feeling of the Brit- ish Government is believed to be precisely similar. The reasons are obvious enough; and we are satisfied that a brief statement of them alone is needed to convince the country that Lord Palinerston is right. Our desire for the termination of the disastrous contest is at least as earnest as that of France,our conviction of the hopelessness of the war is as strong, our readiness to seize any opportunity of acting as peace- makers to the full as great ;but we can- not see that the present moment is a favor- able one for friendly interposition; still less can we see that the proposal of the emperor is one which we could either hopefully or even decorously endorse and support. A few moments reflection will suffice to make this plain. In the first place, the conjuncture is not very happily chosen. The Federals have just collected their new levies, and are ~pre- p~iring for a renewal of the contest with greater inveteracy, and on a larger scale than ever. Mr. lincoln and his friends are menaced by the return of the Democratic ascendency,an ascendency which might be fatal to their power if not penal to their persons, unless they can win some fresh ~vic- tories, or display some encouraging and impressive vigor. We have not received the slightest hint that European mediation would be welcome at Washington, or would even be received without indignation. It is understood, on the contrary, that it is the one thing which the Cabinet are most espe- cially anxious to preclude. If~ indeed, the emperor had waited till next March, and if the results of the State and Congressional elections should by that time have given a decided preponderance to the Opposition (as seems very probable), then a pacific and respectful representation from the great powers of Europe would have had some chance of being listened to, and might have turned the trembling scale. But just at the actual crisis there seems to be really no opening whatever for intervention. In the second place, it is difficult to see how the proposition of the French Em- peror can be regarded as having a friendly aspect. At first sight it sounds indisputa- bly selfish, almost hostile to the North, and not far from insulting. At least we are much afraid that it will be so read out there. The suggestion is for an armistice by sea and land for the space of six months, which are to be employed in endeavoring to find terms of accommodation. The ar- mies are to suspend all operations, and the naval squadron is to raise the blockade. Nearly every circumstance of such an ar- mistice must, it is obvious, tend to the ad- vantage of the South. It would play their game almost more effect~ially than the most successful campaign could play it. That it would play ours as wellthat it would sup- ply France and England with the cotton they so sorely want-that it would open to their merchants the market for their wines, their coffees, their hardware, their clothing, which they so greatly missis only certain to render it more distasteful to the North- erners. The first operation would be, of course, by the opening of the Southern ports to European trade, that the Confeder- ates would be able to sell all their accumu- lated stock of cotton and tobacco at very high prices, and thus raise funds to meet the demands of the war if the war should be renewed. It would enable them to im- port all the military stores, guns, ammuni- tion, and uniforms, which would render them more obstinate and more formidable foes than ever. It would at once fill their cities with all the commodities needed for daily comfort and consumption, the want of which has reduced them to such severe straits, and was relied upon by the North as one of the surest means of compelling them to submit. In a word, a six months armistice and cessation of the blockade is precise4i the t1~ngzsD indeed, almost tkE PROPOSED MEDIATION WITH AMERICA. 37 only tltingtke Southerners want ;and it the Secession ordinance? or those which are is for that very reason just the thing which now occupied I)y the Confederate forces P we could not decently ask the Northerners Are Tennessee, Kentucky, an(l Maryland included in the Northern or in the Southern to grant. Moreover, another efi~ct most Federation Pfor hoth claim them. Must disastrous to the Federal cause, would prob- not our mediation under such circum- ahly result from the armistice proposed. stances have the character rather of propo- A large part of the Federal army would sals to two generals than of negotiations melt away, and when once dispersed we ap opened with two nations? prehend it would he impossible to re-collect Again. What distinct ideas have we as it for the purpose of renewing a desperate to ~the basis of accommodation to be sug- and weary strife. The new levies, no doubt, ges~d? We, in this journal, have more might turn the suspension of hostilities to than once sketched out a possible scheme, improving their discipline but is it one which either England as a na- good account by tion, or France as a Government, would be and drill; but what would become of those willing to adopt? If separation were the thousands who are utterly tired and dis- fundamental assumption, the North would gusted with the prolonged and profitless cry out. If reunion, on any terms, the South decimation they have undergone,whom, would repudiate the idea at once? Could whether officers or privates, it is most diffi- we ask the North to surrender the Border cult even now to keep steady to their colors, States, the loss of which would reduce the who, in a word, are skedaddling day United States to little more than a long by day, in a fashion which makes it impos- narrow territory, lying in a somewhat inhos sible even for the military authorities them- pitable climate? Could we tell the South they selves to ascertain the numbers actually un- ought to hand over to the tender mercies of der their command and available for action? the North their brethren in Kentucky, Tennes- All who could possibly get leave and all see, or Maryland, who hate the Federals as who could slip away unperceived would re- intensely as the Carolinians themselves? Are turn to their homes, and could never be en- we to ask the Confederates to pay any por- ticed back into the ranks. All this is so tion of the enormous Federal debt which has undeniable and so clear that, if the propo- been contracted in order to subdue them? sition had emaiiated from this country, the Or, without going so far as this, how are the universal voice of America would have been old debts and the 01(1 obligations to be ad- raised to denounce it as the most flagrant justed between the North, which is the most proof that could have been afforded of Brit- l)opulous and the most wealthy, and the ish partiality towards the Confederates and South which has carried off the richest and of British spite against the Union,as the the largest portion of the soil P Is the Mis worst of the many affronts and unkindly sissippi to be the Western and the Ohio and acts to be resented when the day of yen- the Potomac the Northern boundaries of geance should arrive. It remains to be slavery, and would Jefferson Davis consent seen how it will be regarded at Washington to such an arrangement? If not, and if we now that it emanates fiom that power which are to advocate the claim of each State to they have so long l)ersisted in representing say freely which Confederacy it will join, as their peculiar friend and ally. what prospects are there that Abolitionists Much as we should desire impartial media- in America or their sympathizers here will tion in this deplorable quarrel, in some form permit a negotiation based upon such a that would have a chance of proving accept- broadly democratic notion? Whichever way able, yet it is impossible to be blind to an- we view it, the difficulties are tremendous, other and at present apparently an insuper- and we scarcely see how we can hope to in- able difficulty in the way. In oider to propose tervene as pacificators with much efl~ct till terms of negotiation or of armistice, it seems both parties are weary of the contest, and indispensable to have distinct parties to treat ask Europe, as impartial spectators, to assist withvisible governments with defined ter- them in contriving a conclusion which both ritoriesas well as to have in our own minds desire, or till the events of the war have something like a basis for accommodation more accurately (lefined the relative strength, to suggest. Now, though we know who is position, and frontiers of the combatants the head of the Confederate Government, than has yet been done. and where the Confederate Congress sits, we do not know of what the Confederacy con- Since this article was in type, the Gazette sists. The South has no boundary, no of to-night has published Lord Russells de- ascertained number of States within its lim- spatch, declining to act at l)resent in the its. Is it to be held to embrace all the Slave manner proposed by the Emperor of the States? or only those ~vhich originallysigned. French. THE AMERICAN QUESTION. From The Journal des D~bats. TIlE AMERICAN QUESTION. PAuI$, Nov. 14, 1802. Oun readers know what has been the in- variai)lc opinion of this paper upon the Amcrican question; they will therefore ap- preciate, without the necessity of further explanation upon our part, the sentiments excited in us hy the despatch published in this mornings Moniteur. We perceive with pleasure that this (locument is full of respect- ful consideration for the United States, and that the language of our Minister of Foreign Affairs (lc)es not transcend the hounds of the strictest impartiality. The French Govern- ment expressly declares in this despatch that it desires to abstain from the expression of any opinion on the origin or issue of this conflict, and that it does not assume to ex- ercise any pressure upon the negotiations which it desires to see opened between the belligerents. It even gives it to he under- stood (and this is the most comforting por- tion of the document) that if America sends the European powers ahout their business, they will submit, and be content with the honor of having made a diplomatic effort in favor of peace. But it is out of the question, under cir- cumstances of such gravity, to be satisfied with words, and it is necessary to go straight to the bottom of the matter. What is it in- tended to demand definitively of the United States? A suspension of hostilities for six months ; which implies, if it has any signifi- cance, the raising of the blockade established on the coast of the Southern States. Is there any chance whatever of seeing a prop- osition of this nature entertained on the other side of the Atlantic P That it would be welcomed with grateful aeclamations in the camp of the slaveholders, that it would be received at Richmond as the tidings of their deliverance, and the baptism of the new State, is not to be doubted. Nothing more natural. The South has never either hoped for or demanded anything beyond the sus- pension of hostilities and raising of the blockade; and in truth, after such a step, a treaty of peace would be a simple formality to be looked for with certainty. But, for this very reason, what sentiment can a prop- osition of this nature excite at the North? It is virtually not only the suspension, but the end of the war that the North is asked to proclaim. Would it be possible to resume such a struggle after having once suspended it at the invitation of foreign powers? To accept this proposition is simply to recog- nize in fact the existence of the Southern Confederation, and the final dismemberment ef the republic. The Morning Post is therefore right in as- serting that the North is requested to corn.. mit suicide. But without making use of this strong ~vord we will say, with whosoever will reflect a single instant, that it is proposed to the North to accept to-day, willingly, those terms which would be offered as pre- liminaries of peace at the end of a war, in which Europe, united with the South, should have gained a decisive victory. For what could be at first demanded of the North, after it had been couquered by Europe, other than that it should release its grasp and treat amicably concerning the regulation of the conditions of existence of the new State? The English press is then far from wrong in foreseeing that the North, thus be- sought in politest terms to lay down its arms, will answer simply: Come and take them. One of two things must then happens either we shall retire with the refusal we ought to expect; or we are determined be- forehand to impose by force the mediation ~vhich we offer in the guise of friends. ~Yar, then, with the North is the inevitable con- clusion to which this policy must lead, un~ less we abandon it, with a regret at having entered upon it. Is such a war really de- sired? and have we reflected well upon it P We will invoke here no argument of moral- ity or justice. We will not ask our contem- poraries of the press, who daily preach a European crusade against the United States, and who claim for France the honor of or- ganizing and leading it, what injury the United States have done to Francewhat wrong, what insult they have been guilty of towards us,what right, divine or hu- man, they have transgressed in obeying that instinct of self-preservation which animates States as well as men, in making a desperate effort against their dismemberment, their de- basement, the loss of their rank in the world. Nor will we remark that the United States are no more holden before God or before man to supply us with cotton, than France, torn by revolution and civil war in 1792, was to furnish Europe her ordinary contingent of wines and silks; and that to give the worlds sanction to such motives, as sufficient justification for a war, is to accustom man to take the life of his fellow-creature without being able to allege a good reason. Finally, we will say nothing of slavery, nor oi tbe French flag which covered the cradle of that republic; we are aware that such arguments are out of season, that it is fashionable at the present day to smile at them, and that the attraction of a bad cause exercises the same powerful influence over a great num- ber of our contemporaries, which the words liberty and justice had upon the hearts of our fathers. 38 THE AMERICAN QUESTION. We will then lay aside the arguments which appeal to the conscience, and, ad- dressing ourselves directly to the, material interests, those undisputed rulers of the world, will counsel those of our fellow-citi- zens who show themselves so eager to en- gage in a war with the United States, to ask themselves why England has hesitated, from the beginning of the contest, to adopt such a course: why, even to-day, with the temp- tation of a French alliance before its eyes, the Morning Po8t repeats that the English Government is resolved not to intervene. Who is more deeply interested than Eng- land in the destruction of the American Union? Who desires with greater ardor, and for so tanny good reasons the final de- feat and irrevocable dismemberment of the United States? Whether England bethinks her of her present sufferings and contem- plates her deserted factories, or ponders her future grandeur, and devours already with her eyes that vast southern territory, which, once separated from the United States, must fall so naturally and completely under her influence; or again, revels in anticipation in the humiliation of the American flag and annihilation of a maritime rival, whose growth has increased with every day. Eng- land cannot contain her hopes, and every morning, in the land of Wilberfarce, the voice of a hundred journals ascends to heaven to invoke the divine blessing upon the arms of slaveholders. The pro-slavery papers of Paris may do their best, they will never sncceed in being more English than their London brethren on the American question. But the passions of England are always tempered with prudence; and if, on the other side of the Channel the patriotic desire to see the United States conquered is uni- versal, the idea of intervention is anything but poI)iilar. We cannot but be surprised that those of our papers which attach ordi- narily so much importance to the opinions of Mr. Cobden, and quote him so often as an oracle on more than one subject on which his authority is doubtful, pay so little heed to his recent speech upon American affairs. Few Englishmen know the United States better than Mr. Cobden. I-Jo has travelled through them, lived there, kept up numerous relations with them. lIo~v does he treat the project of re-establishing peace there by a European intervention? He treats it as ridiculous; and I venture to affirm that he~ proves it to be so. lie takes into account the distances to be traversed, the populations to be conquered upon their own soil; he re- calls the fruitless struggle maintained by England against her own colonies, when their population did not exceed three millions of souls; and he concludes that it would be safer and less costly to feed the workmen thrown out of employment in Englaadupon turtle soup, champagne, and venison, for ten years, than to carry on such an enterprise for six months. He adds, moreover, that if he were the actual President of the United States, and embarrassed by the interaal dis- cords of the North, he would see without regret a foreign intervention,, which should put an end to all dissensions and fuse the wills of all its citizens in a common eflbrt for the salvation of their country. It may be indeed, that this supreme trial is needed by the United States. Despite the obstinate courage which that peol)le has shown in the saddest days of this civil war, it seems as if two things had heen wanting, up to the present moment, to enable them to strike a decisive hlow, and l)ut an end to it. Military talent has not revealed itself among their leaders ; their Government, moreover, does not appear to be quite equal to the emergency. Philosophers who are in the habit of treating with severity or contempt genius in its application to the conduct of war, have here a grand lesson before their eyes. How much mourning would have been sl)ared if the United States had had at hand some one general capable of shedding blood only when bloodshed was necessary, and of gaining one single victory, worthy of the name, in the I)lace of a dozen indecisive bat- tles. Military talent has been less wanting to the cause of the South; but it will only serve to delay defeat: whereas had it am peared on that side where is the strength as well as the right, it would have precipitated the war to its end. But time is needed to enable an industrial people, seeking fame and fortune in the arts of l)CaCC, to furnish their generals with an army really efficient and capable of serving as an instrument in the hands of geniusshould a genius arise. To these too peaceful habits, the growth of domestic quiet and liberty, must be at- tributed the comparative feebleness with which the Government of the United States may be charged in the prosecution of the civil ~var. It has hesitated too long to make use of the legitimate and formidable arms which the question of slavery has placed in its hands: it allowed itself to be lured too long by a hope that it could reconstruct the Union, without resorting to all the rights of war, without interfering, at least during the struggle, with the internal affairs of tho States, without striking a blow at that insti- tution, which after all is the only seriou~ cause of so many disasters, and which has brought the republic within a hairs breadth of its ruin. The Federal Government appears at 1~ THE FRENCH PROJECT OF MEDIATION. enlightened as to the imminence of its peril, and also as to the full extent of its rights and duties; but perhaps it may be necessary, in order to stir the heart of the American peo- ple to its depth, to set in motion the popu- lation of the West and North, to throw the whole nation into the struggle, that the in- evitable and tangible image-of this peril be set before their eyes. Perhaps it may be necessary that the foreigner should set his foot upon their soil, to electrify them from one end of the country to the other. Per- haps, it may be, that a foreign flag must float before New Orleans by the side of the ban- ner of slavery, for the farmer of the West to feel that the mouths of the great river form part of his magnificent inheritance, and that his country extends thus far. On that day, either the very rocks of America will trem- ble with wrath, or the American peol)le will have deserved their fate, and have existed for an instant as a great nation, to show only how a great nation may fall. But we should see without much uneasi- ness this supreme trial begin, and the hand of the foreigner stretched out against the United States, certain as we are that it will not he the hand of France, and that we shall be faithful, alike to the interests and tra(li- tions of our country, in ofii~ring our prayers for their victory. (Signed) PREVOST PARADOL. From The Saturday Review, Kov. 15. THE FRENCH PROJECT OF MEDIATION. POLITIcAL rumors which end in nothing are generally mischievous; but the injury which arises from reports of intervention in America is almost unprecedently great. The starvation of Lancashire is caused, not by a deficiency of cotton in the world at large, but hy an absence of sufficient commercial inducement for procuring it from the coun- tries where it is grown. No merchant is bound to ruin himself by a speculative order for a commodity which may suddenly be thrown on his hands in an overstocked market. Lord Russell has sufficiently puz- zled tra(lers by publishing within a single fortnight two official estimates of the stock of Southern cotton, as consisting respectively of two million and of four million bales. It may, however, have been the duty of the Government to circulate as widely as possi- ble all the information within its own reach, although it may be unreliable and contradic- tory. Manufacturers and merchants may still be induced to en~ourage Indian imports by the knowledge that the American stock, whether large or small, is at present shut out of the European market by the blockade. But it is most unfortunate that their hazard- ous enterprise should be interrupted by an- nouncements of diplomatic attempts to raise the blockade. It appears that the French Government has at last formally invited England and Russia to join in an al)plication to the belligerents for an armistice, which might give an o~)~)ortunity for negotiating a peace; and as governments are in the habit of feeling their way before they commit themselves by regular overtures, it may be assumed that the courts of London and St. Petersburg had previously received notice of the project, and that they have made up their minds on the ans~ver to be returned. At all events, the policy of France is cer- tainly consistent. The blockade would have been raised many months ago but for the steady persistence of England in the neutral system which American newspapers charae- teristically ascribe to national cowardice. Unless the French Government had been either prepared to act alone, or assured of English co-operation, no plan of intervention would have been formally proposed. It is im1)ossible to assert positively that the assent of England has been withheld, hut, on the opposite supposition, some of the gravest members of the Cabinet must have been guilty of unaccountable indiscretion. Mr. Gladstones Southern sympathies were only expressed in the theoretical l)roposition that Mr. Jefferson Davis had succeeded in mak- ing n nation. Since his Northern tour, Sir G. C. Lewis and the Duke of Somerset have publicly explained the cogent reasons of pol- icy and of law which prohibit the immediate recognition of the Confederacy. It is certain that neither statesman can have anticipated the early concurrence of his government in a mediation which would practically assume the independence of the South; and as the campaign has since taken no (lecisive turn, it is difficult to understand what reason or excuse could be ofl~red for a sudden change of policy. Every minister must be fully aware of the commercial disturbance which is caused by any l)rospect, however remote, of opening the Southern ports. rJ7he French Government is of course at liberty to inter- fere, either alone or in concert with Rvssia; but if England stands aloof, an offer of me- diation will he nugatory, unless it is followed by a dangerous and doubtful employment of force. It is true that the advocates of the South assert that the Federalists desire in- tervention; but nothing in the conduct of the Washington Government, or in the lan- guage of its supporters, tends to confirm their statement. If Mr. Lincoln has really invited French mediation, he has utterly bewildered 40 THE FRENCH PROJECT OF MEDIATION. his countrymen, and especially his parti- Bans. An armistice, attended by a suspension of the blockade, means the termination of the war and the independence of the South- ern Confederacy. If the European Powers interfere for the purpose of re-opening the ports, they will never again allow them to be closed; for the renewal of a bloody and hopeless contest would be even more justly obnoxious to general feeling than a continu- ance of a struggle in~which it may perhaps be difficult to pause. It is also evident that the Government of Washington would refuse to acquiesce in a truce, except in the confi- dence that it must expand into a definitive peace. The Northern preparations have been made at enormous expense, and the ranks of the army are for the moment full. The maintenance of half a million of soldiers for six months in utter idleness ~vould be ruinously wasteful, ~nd a promiscuous grant of furloughs would only lead to the final dis- appearance of recruits who have with diffi- culty been attracted by unprecedented boun- ties. A temporary peace would be almost as costly as war, and it would provide few additional resources. As the tariff would not be altered, there is no reason why com- merce should revive, nor could the sea be more open than at present to Federal ship- ping. On the other hand, the South would profit by the interval to sell its cotton, and to buy whatever is required for the success- ful prosecution of the war. Arms, clothing, and ammunition would be reduced to a third or a fourth of the present prices, and almost the entire cost of the maintenance of the army would be saved to the Confederate Treasury. The volunteers of the South could, in any case, be trusted to rally round the flag which they have from the first de- fended under the influence of patriotic zeal; and, on the improbable supposition that the war could he renewe(l at the close of a lim- ited armistice, it is not too much to say that the comparative chances of success would be fundamentally altered. The North would be as much poorer or weaker as the South would be better and stronger; nor could the most resolute fanatic refuse to see that the principle of independence had been virtually conceded. If any further argument were needed to show that the French proposal must be rejected by the Federal Govern- ment, it is sufficient to observe that the North can obtain an armistice at l)leasure, apart from the interference of neutrals, and without concessions to the enemy. By ab- staining from the invmision of the South, the Federals can suspend or discontinue active hostilities hy land, while at the same time they maintain the blockade. It is not likely that Mr. Lincoln will purchase at a heavy cost a doubtful benefit which may be secured at his own discretion. The practical difficulties of the reported project multiply indefinitely as the matter is more fully considered. It must be supposed that, during the armistice, both Federations would maintain their own commercial sys~ tems, so that perfect free trade in the South would co-exist with the rigid l)rotectionismn of the North. As it could be scarcely worth while to establish a line of inland custom~ houses for an interval of six months, there would be nothing to prevent an unlimited extension of the contraband trade which is already carried on in the midst of the ivar. Even if the Confederate Government provi- sionally adopted the Nomihern tariff, it could scarcely enforce on its citizens the corre- sponding excise duties which have been im- posed by the Federal Congress. A mere suspension of arms might not be impractica- ble; but the withdrawal of the blockade would render arrangements necessary which would be impracticable unless they were per- manent. In short, the mediation would be equivalent to a recognition of the South, and to a declaration of war with th~ North. The benevolent profession of putting a stop to useless bloodshed could scarcely be discon- nected from the avowed intention of obtain- ing cotton for European looms. The suffer- ing occasioned by the blockade may perhaps hereafter justify forcible intervention; hut English opinion is almost unanimous in hold- ing that the time has not yet arrived for over- ruling international law on the ground of political expediency. The reception of Mr. Slideli at Compi~gne seems to indicate that the Emperor Napo- leon has already settled the terms of an im- pending alliance with the Confederate Gov- ernment. It is difficult to reconcile his new policy with his usual agaciy and caution, especially if he has stipulated for aid or countenance in his wild Mexican enterprise. Although the Northern Republicans will un- doubtedly denounce the neutrality of Eng- land as more culptwNe than the ~nmity of France, even American credulity and preju- dice must yield to the evidence of an un- friendly and one-sided mediation. The un- expected issue of the French Circular explains the recent eagerness of the English Opposi- tion for intervention on behalf of the South. Its most active leader has for some time cul- tivated a back-stairs connection with the French Government. In the last session Mr. Disraeli held a brief from the reaction- ary section of the Imperial Court, and he did full justice to his instructions by l)rotesting against Lord Palmerstons vexatious resist amice to the uncoatrolled will of his august 41 p 42 ally. There is no reason why a similar un- d~rstanding should not bc established on American as well as on Italian questions. Although the Emperor Napoleon has hith- erto shown J)erfeet loyalty in concerting his policy with the English Government, he, or his ministers, may perhaps sometimes think it 0x1)edient to promote their own views by the indirect l)ressure of domestic opposition. It may have been thought, moreover, that the English Cabinet, notwithstanding its own distaste to interference, would be unwilling to hold back when all the other great powers were anxious to impose peace on the Amen- ~ns. The report that Russia had adhered to the French proposal was evidently con- trived for tbe purpose of deterring resist- ance. The actual isolation of France will be excused on the ground that Lord Palmer- Btons obstinate perversity has checked the benevolent intentions of governments which are less immediately interested in American ffairs. Intrigues of this kind are intelligi- ble, and generally trivial; but commercial confusion is more serious than th~ ordinary consequences of underground diplomacy. A penny in the pound in the price of cotton at present outw~igbs the iml)ortanco of Mr. Disraelis contingent accession to office by the aid of either an ecclesiastical or a foreign alliance. From The Saturday Review, 22 Xov. THE PHOPOSEI) MEDIATION. THE Emperor of the French is not in the hahit of acting without reasons, or at least without motives. His proposal of a joint mediation must have been intended either to succeed or to produce some assignable effect after the refusal of Russia and England to concur. Ther~ can be little doubt that the actual result of th~ overture was foreseen, for Governments are ordinarily as un~villing as suitors to incur the annoyance of a delib- & ate and verbal rejection. An offer of alli- ance, like an offer of n~rringe, is merely the formal conclusion of a pre~ious negotiation; and when an anticipated failure is intention- ally provoked, it may be assumed that the usual practice has been abandoned for some definite purpo~. When the French de- spatch was published in the Moniteur before the English Cabinet had decided on an an- swer, the Imperial Government must have been fully prepared for Lord Russells pru- dently negative reply. There is reason to believe that the project was abruptly ten- dered at the Foreign Office without the prep- aration which smoothes the way for diplo- matic movements of importance; and, be- THE PROPOSED MEDIAT[O1~J. fore the offer ~vas rejected, the reception of Mr. Slidell at Campi~0ae ~vas officially an- nounced to France and to America. The Emperor Napoleon wishes either to com- mence a fresh course of action, or to ad- vertise his desire for peace, and his good- will to the Southern Confederacy. It is perfectly natural that he should he anxious to prove to the distressed manufacturers of Rouca and Lyons his interest in th& r suffer- ings, and his energy in devising l)lans for their relief; and yet ,the pul)lieation of M. Drouyn de Lhuyss despatch can scarcely have been designed exclusively for domestic pur- poses. The express mention of the Confed- erate States by the title which they have se- lected for themselves virtually involves a recognition; and the proposal of an arnus- tice by sea and land, including the suspen- sion of the blockade, implies an opinion which may shortly be uttered in language more intelligible than words. It is probable that the terms of alliance with the Southern States are not yet arranged, nor is it easy to understand any practical advantage which can be exchanged far the po~verful support of France beyond the renewed supply of cot- ton for the mills but it it is possible that schemes for the partition of Mexico, involv- ing the acquisition of Sonora by France, may have been already discussed or projected. The unanimity with which Lord Russells answer has been approved in England is scarcely disturbed by the murmurs of the professional Opposition. Mr. Disraelis for- eign l)olitics are p& culiar to himself and to a comparatively small section of his support~ ens, while the better and larger portioi~ of the party is unable to understand why a dead weight of gratuitous unpopularity should be perversely hung round its neck. The Eng- lish nation is not so entirely of one mind in the American quarrel as in the Italian strug- gle for independence; but, on the whole, it has come to the conclusion that the South will have the best of the contest, and that it is not, the business of foreigners to accelerate the impending catastrophe. The resentment which has been justly provoked by the silly malignity of the North is by no means strong enough to create a desire for a rupture; and th~ wrongdoers are executing poetical justice on themselves effectually enough to satisfy the most unfriendly aspirations. Whatever may have been the errors of former times, England is noW a thoroughly peaceable na- tion; and where no point of honor is involved, a general conviction prevails that war is ths most unprofitable of employments. As Mr. Cobden said, it would be cheaper to main- tain Lancashire in luxury, or to incur any other extravagant outlay, than to indulge in a six months campaign. The Federalists, THE PROPOSED MEDIATION. 43 vid especially the Republicans, will say, with systc~ of neutrality, there were strong rea- the French journals, that the fear of a quar- Sons against embarking in a joint entarprise rel with the North is a proof of the i)asest of undefined nature and extent. Only a few cowardice; but if all other subjects of na- months since, it became necessary to incur a tional vanity fail, the Englishman may risk of misconstruction by withdrawing at proudly boast that he is the least thin- the last mo[nent from the Mexican undertak skinned of civilized mankind. The policy ing. It might have been more difficult to of the country is, happily, independent of pause in the process of intervention in Amer- the criticism and satire of foreigners. Tb e ica, if an attempt to open the blockade had Government wisely declined to take a part been followed by a di~claraiion of war. in mediation because the proposal would An ingenious commentator in the Journal have been frivolous and undignified unless des D~bats remarks, with significant irony, it were followed up by action. The Federal that Albion can nevcr hell) being a little Government could have bad no motive for perfidious. Lord Russell ~s accused of an accepting. ~vithout compulsion, a scheme attempt to conciliate America at the expense which was exclusively favorable to their ad- of France; and the French writer remarks versaries. The refusal would probably not that it is odd that the ministers of George have been expressed in courteous language, III.s descendant should become the champi- and further pressure might have led to the oiis of the United States against the country- war which the nation is fully determined to men of Lafayette and Rochambean. The avoid, censure may be more patiently endured, be- The form of Lord Russells despatch cause it is really directed against the Impe- is wholly unobjectionable ; for politeness, rial Government, and not against England. though always meritorious, is never so ap- The art of ironical and indirect satire has propriate as when it becomes necessary to been cultivated to rare perfection under the utter a refusal. The admission that the p~~- system of official warnings to the press; and ticipation of Russia was desirable was equiv- it is more convenient fnr a journalist to find alent to a hint that Prince Gortschakofis in- an argument against his own Government in tended reply was, in its substance, as well a foreign despatch than to utter it in his known in Lontlon as in Paris. It ~vould, in own person. Lord Russell thought little deed, have been strange if the Russian Gov- enough of Lafayette and George III., but eminent, which has no need of Southern cot- there is no doubt that the party in France ton, had concurred in a plan for opening the which favors the Northern Federation is blockade either by force or by diplomatic chiefly influenced by the belief that the urgency. The Emperor Alexander was prob- United States are natural rivals and enemies ably influenced rather by obvious reasons of of England. When the Sceession occurred, policy than by the devoted admiration for the feeling of regret was almost universal his person arid his form of government which among Englishmen, not on account of any is proclaimed by Mr. Clay, and other Amer- selfIsh interest in American unity, but be jean iicnds of freedom. It has always been cause the iaterruption of a brilliant career the habit of Russia to court the goodwill of of prosperity is in itself a melancholy spec the United States, and the success of the tacle. The French theory of the balance of attempt was proved during the Crimean war, power retains a more obstinate vitality. The As the Northern Federation retains the title Emperor Napolean has been censured for of the former Republic, and as it especially allowing a great power to grow up on the cherishes the tradition of animosity to Eng- frontiers of France, and he is now believed land, the court of St. Petersburg consist- to have committed a mistake in recognizing ently abstains from an interference which the disruption of a great power which might would have been regarded as offensive. In have been formidable to England. lie is. replying more directly to the French Gov- perfectly right in seeing the truth of actual eminent, Lord Russell properly took occa- events, but it is possible that his policy may sion to acknowledge the friendly conduct of be adventurous and unquiet, although it is the Emperor Napoleon in the matter of the comparatively exempt from the influence Trent; and in proceeding to explain the of obsolete traditions. His projected con- grounds of his refusal, he complied with the quest of Mexico is almost the only attempt rules of diplomatic courtesy, although the at military aggression which has ever been motives of English policy might have been unpopular in France. If he extends his de- perfectly understood without elaborate expo- signs to an alliance with the Southern Con- sition. It would have been superfluous and federacy, he will incur large risks and liabil- uncivil to add that, independently of the I ities. 44 From The Economist, 15 Nov. THE ATTITUDE OF THE POPE. THE French Government, says M. Drouyn de Lhuys, has at no period ever held out the hope,either to Piedmont or Italy, that it would sacrifice to them Rome and the Papacy. Consequently Italy must wait till France becomes heartily ashamed of her ad- mirable proteg6, and if we may judge by the signs of the times, Rome will very soon do far more to make the position of France dis- reputable and unpopular even with the Cath- olic world than any notes of General Duran- dos would ever succeed in effecting. We have often recommended patience and or- ganization to the Italian Governinc~nt as the true way both to Rome and Venice. We now propose to 1)OiIit out how many influ- ences are at work in the Papal camp itself to aid the efibrts of Italy, if the government of that country will only be true to its own cause and quietly permit the Papal See to be, as it seems bent on being, and by the law of its nature as a sovereign power it is almost bound to be,false to itself. In the first place, the clergy, who have hitherto been more or less allies of the tem- poral power, are every day deserting the Pope in greater and greater numbers in his struggle for temporal sower. Of the eighty thousand priests and monks whom Italy contains, about ten thousand of the clergy have already deserted on patriotic grounds the Papal standard, and signed Father Pas- saglias l)Ctition to the Pope to abandon his temporal power for the sake of both Church and State. That petition, which has just been presented, entreats Pio Nono in the most devout and affectionate language to let the two great Italian cries, Long live the Pope and Long live Rome the capital of the new Kingdom, resound once more in perfect harmony and without distracting the dearest wishes of the nation. It may be said that ten thousand out of eighty thou- sand is but a small proportion, it seven priests and. perhaps half as many nuns re- main to plead thecause of the Papal Crown against each ecclesiastical deserter. But this would very ill represent the state of the case even at present. The ten thousand who have signed Father Passaglias memo- rial are but the chosen few who have risked and ventured much for the sake of their country. Among the craven acts of 1!. Rattazzi, few have been worse than that which withdrew the promise of indemnity which had, it is asserted, been given by Baron Ricasoli to all who, after signing Pas-. saglias petition, should find that they had suffered pecuniarily by it in consequence of the displeasure of their ecclesiastical supe- riors ;for the working clergy or rectors are entirely at the mercy of the bishops, and the bishops in Italy are almost all Papal. Baron Ricasoli had authorized Father Passaglia to send round a letter to the priests, conveying to them that if they were persecuted or should suffer temporal loss in consequence of their signature, the Government would take their loss upon itself. When M. Rat- tazzi came into power he withdrew this permission, and the letter was not sent. Consequently, the ten thousand signatures represent at present only those who were willing to risk much in the cause; and yet we find among the names already signed not only 76 episcopal vicars and 1,096 monsig.- nors (i.e., canons of cathedrals or collegiate churches), but 783 archpriests, provosts, or parish rectors, 317 chaplains, 861 parish vicars or curates, 343 doctors, 167 reverend schoolmasters, 4,533 simple priests, and 767 monks or regular clergyin all 8,942 (a number daily increased by accessions printed in Father Passaglias journal, Ii .illediatoe, so that it will certainly pass 10,000). It is clear that one-eighth part of the Italian clergy are already not only opposed to the temporal power, but willing to incur a good deal of serious loss to get rid of it; and of course a very much larger number would soon appear to be friendly to the national movement if this shadow of doubt could he dispelled. 1-lowever, what we want to point out now is,not the inherent force of the movement so much as the intrinsic certainty that the. Papal Government will itself contribute much to aid and spur on that movement. The bishops,who to the number of no less than two hundred and thirty-seven are, as we said, almost to a man on the side of the Papal Government,will be obliged for their own sakes to sho~v their zeal against the l)etition- ers; and, following the Papal l)reeedent, will, no doubt, institute very active proceedings against them. This course, which is certain in many cases to be followed, will only have THE ATTITUDE OF THE POPE. THE ATTiTUDE OF THE POPE. the effect of marking more distinctly and mischievously for the Papal See the distinc- tion which is apparent between the pro-Pa- pal and the Passaglian clergy. Already the Italian papers are calling attention to the contrast between the general repute and high standing of most of the subscribers, and the calibre of the protestors, who from Papal zeal or worldly craft, are writing to the pa- pers very ill-spelled and ill-composed letters to explain that they are not to be confounded with petitioners of the same name therein found. The more sharply the bishops mark this distinction by persecuting the petition- ers, the better will it be for the Italian na- tion. It will soon become a popular distinc- tion to be the object of episcopal dislike, and to be reckoned among the opponents of the temporal power. And when once this is so, we may be quite sure that the clergy will not long remain manageable instruments of the Pope, and either the bishops must give way, or the Church will risk the greatest of all dangersa mighty schism at its very cen- tre. Even now there is rumor of filling up the thirty-four vacant Italian sees, which in- dude, we believe, the important sees of Tu- ~in and Milan, without the aid of the Pope, since he is not inclined to sanction any choice agreeable to the King of Italy. Of course this alone would be an act of schism, and yet sooner or later it must take place, if the rope continues to hold out. When thirty- four out of two hundred and thirty-seven sees are already empty, it cannot be long before the populous episcopacy of Italy is mown down by Death. A few years must decide the feud between King and Pope fa- vorably for the King, if it be only by the natural demise of the pro-Papal bishops. If the Pope had no longer any clerical parti- sans in Italy except in his own small State, France, even for her own interest, could hardly persist in strengthening the hands of an obstinate head of the Church against the whole clerical voice of Italy. But it is not only by the paralysis of his ecclesiastical power that the Popes secular sway will be rendered impossible. As a sov- ereign, his difficulties are daily and almost hourly multiplying. Every one knows his money difficulties. The Peters Pence are a very limited source of income; the taxation of his circumscribed States is extremely lim- ited also; and the borrowing power is be- coming exhausted, not that his credit is absolutely gone, but that the money market, foreseeing that his successor must probably accept his debts but will not accept them cer- tainly on such exorbitant terms, tries to make hay while the sun shines, and to extort from the necessities of a tottering throne the most that it believes that throne is willing to offer. A striking illustration of the neediness of the Pope is said to have occurred the other day, in conjunction with an equally striking illustration of his political sagacity. The railway from Rome to Naples has now for some time been practically completed. The court of Rome had guaranteed five per cent. on the capital expended on the Roman line as soon as the line was really opened for work. Since this contract was made, how- ever, the Pope has bethought himself that Garibaldi took Naples by a railway ticket, and that railways are naturally inimical to arbitrary sway. His holiness, therefore, is naturally unwilling to bring his subjects into too close connection with a seditious king- dom, especially when that intercourse will probably cost hini at first a considerable sum. The consequence is that the Pope will not sanction the opening of the line. He picks holes in the legal case of the Rail- way Coinpany,coniplains that all sorts of petty conditions in the contract are still un- satisfied,demands that certain levels shall be rectified, certain station-houses completed, and so forth, always discovering somethin~ fresh which renders it impossible for him tp sanction the opening of the line. At the same time, it is said, that there was one conditioti which would have perfectly satisfied him. If the Railway Company could have lent him 20,OOO,OOOf (~8OO,OOO), all minor difficulties might have been smoothed over. The inci- dent is exceedingly instructive as to the fate of the temporal power. The Pope, as a po- litical ruler, feels an antecedent dislike to. measures which promote the mere temporal prosperity of his kingdom, but he can get over that dislike for a consideration. Iii other words, his subjects must buy off his prejudice against their welfare, if they are not willing to be seriously injured by it. It is the system of indulgences over again 4.. plied to political rule. For railway commu- nication you must pay first the cost of con- struction, and then for the spiritual permission to make use of such a, luxury. Ilow can s 45 46 THE ATTITUDE OF THE POPE. temporal rule so administered endure long P nation will necessarily become more and If the Italian Government will but be pa- more intolerable. In twenty ways which it tient, and work out in the clearest way the is hardly J)ossible to define, the Papal Gov- antithesis between itself and its spiritual eminent will find its position becoming more neighbor, the Papacy cannot long stand even and more untenable, ways of all of which on its artificial French foundation. As Tus- bankruptcy will probably be the natural out- cany, Naples, Umbria, and the Romaga a come. Let but Italy work on eagerly, and make rapid strides towards industry and possess her soul in l)atience, and the Roman freedom, the charmed circle of Papal stag- Government will ore bug collapse. Music o~ POuT ROYAL KEGItOItS. The editor of Dwiqlits Journal of Music pnhlishes a letter from Miss Lncy MeKim, of Philadelphia, accompanying a specimen of the songs in vogne among the negroes about Port Royal. Miss MeKim accompanied her father thiLber on a re- cent visit and writes as follows It is difficult to express the entire character of these negro haihuls l)y mere musical notes and sigis. [he 0(1(1 Inrus ma(le in the throat, and the curious rhythmic effect l)to(ltlce(l hy single voices chiming in at different irregular intervals, seem almost as impossible to place on score as the singing of birds or the tones of the A~olian harp. Vp)10 airs, however, can he reael)ed. 1htev are too tleci{led not to he easily understood, aii(l their striking originality would catch the car of any musician. Besides this, they are valnable as an expression of the char- acter anti lifi.~ of the race which is playing such a consl)icnons lout iii our history. The vild sad strains tell, as the sufferers themselves never could, of crushed hopes, keen sorrow, and a dull daily misery, which covered them as hope- lessly as die fug from the rice swataps. On the other hatol, the words breathe a trustisg Thith in rest in the futurein Canaans fair and l)ap~)y land, to which their eyes seem con- stantly tunted. A complaint tnight be nuade against these songs on the score of monotony. It is true there is a great deal of repetition of the music, tnt that is to accotumodate the leader, who, if he 1)0 it gOo(l one, is always an improvi- sator. ]~orinstauce, on one occasion, the name of each of our party ~vlro was presetat ~vas dex- terously introdneed. As the same songs are sung at cvei-v sort of work, of course the tempo isnot always alike. On the watet., the oars dip Poor Rosy to nit even andante ; a stottt boy and girl at the hioni- mv mill will make the s tine Poor Ro~v fly, to keep itit with the whit hitu~V stone , anti in the evening, afwr the dii s ivork is (bite, Ileab n shall a be uty home j)t. ds up slowly and mournfully from the distunt qniutem~ One woman, a respectalsle house sci taut it ho h itl lost all bitt ((tie of lieu tweuri ttuo elnldreui said to me, Pshaw don r bat to de~e ici (1111 en, inisse. Dey just t utdes it off dcv dout t kitow tov for sing it~ I likes ~ Poet- Roatv l~etter dan all do songs, but it cant he sung without a ful heart and a troubled sperrit l All the soigs make good barcaroles. Whittiei- huilded hettet- th:ni lie knew when lie lirote his Song of the Negro Iloatmnan. It seemed wonderfully applk able as we were being rowed across Hilton ileati lttmrtoi among Liiited States gunhoatsilte Wtttatsh and the Vermont towering on either side. I though: tile crew must strike up And massa tink it day ob doom, And we objnbilee/ Perhtips the gi-andest singing that we heard was at the Bitptist Church on St. Helena Isi. tutid, ivhten a congregatioti of three hundred morn and w~ineu joitted in a hymn Roll, Jordan, roll, Jordan Roll, Jordan, roIl! It swelled foitli like a triumphal anthem. That s.imue hymn was sung Ity thousands tif negroes on the Fourth of July last, iihteuu they marched in procession nudet- the stars antI strittes, cheer. ing them for the first time as the flag of our conun-y. A frietud writing from there says that the chorus was itidesci-ibahtly grand that the whole woods and world seemed joining in dint rolling sound. On some of time more important Diseases of t4. Arm!,. By John, Davy, M.D. IF science hind never knovn The name of Humphrey I)avy, it ivotuld have been deeply in dehted to Itis brothiet- Joltn. I)t. Davi bias not only acquired reputation as a practical physi- cian, hat lie has mantle nunicrous commtribtidons to physiological anti naturutl-htistory scicuuce. Ho noty places before the ivorld his medical eXp~ rience, and this volume will be fottud to eta brace a large quantity of vutInable padiohogicab research. Dr. 1)avys experience is more espe- cially confined to die army, and his papers will be read with intemest and impi-ovement by th9 medical officers in oar public services.A~~ aeum. WAR SONGS FOR FREEMEN. WAR SONGS FOR FREEMEN. WE are pleased to hear that Professor Child of Cambridge has undertaken the preparation of a little book to be calle(I War Songs for Freemen, and it is already in such state of for- wardness that its publication may he expected in the course of tile present week. It ~vilI not contain more titan twenty or thirty songs, but they arc of the best. The words are mostly new, antI many of the songs have been written by sonic of onr most distinguished writers. The book ~vill be sold for tiventy-five cents, which is scarcely more titan the cost. It is pro- posed to have a concert at Chickerings Rootris, at which some of the songs shall be sung ; this will doubtless prove a most attractive entertain- ment. We ate gratified to be allo~ved to lay before our rca(icrs a few of die sotigs, iii ativaute of the publication of the book. We are stire that they will lie well received. Among them Mrs. Howes ~v1iieh is a very l)eautifal poem, Mr. Lelatid slie is an aduiirabie sotig-writer, atid Professor lioltutess, will attract especiati attentioii Dell11 Advertiser. UAEVAIID STUDENTS SONG. (Denkst du darert~) Remeroher VC tile fateful gun that sounded To Sit titers wails frottt Chariestotis treacli Remember ye iio~v hearts intl ignan t hotinded Witeit our first dead caine back from Balti- tttore ? The hattie fUl that every breeze Itad flattered, rite Ititun of titrift was hushed ~vitlt suddeti Wite We raised anew the emblems shamed atid sitat te;ed, And turned a front resolved to meet the foe. Rememhuer ye how forth to battle faring Our i:tli:tttt ratuks tile fierce attack witltstood, In till t lie terrors of the In m tilt itearitig Tue peo~tles heart of datutitfess liottitood? how ntattv ti itatud b)rsook its wonted btbor, Forsoek its gtiins as prizes faiitt itt worth, To wield wi; lt~:tin the warlike latuce atid sabte ro cotiqiter Peace whit God, for till ott cartlt Remember ye how, out of. boyhood leapitig, Our gahlatitmattes stood rea4y fiir ilte fray? Asnew-lictlged caglets rise, ~vidt sudden s~veep- utg, And itiect tinseared the dazzling front of day. Our claissie toil became itighotious leisure, We praised tite calm iloratian ode no more; But atHwered back with song the itiartial incas tire, That held its throb above the cannons roar. Remember ye the pageants dim and solemn, Where Love atid Gilef have borne the fatticral 1)iill ? The joyless marching of the intistereil column, With arms reversed to hun iiho cotiquers all? Oh give them back, tlton blootly breast of Treason, They were our own, the darlings of onr hearts I They come hen utnbed artd frosted out of season, With whom tlte summer of our youth departs Look back no more I our time has come, my brothers In Fates Itight roll our names are written too; We fill tlte niouraftil gaps left bate by others, rite ranks ~vltere Fear has never brokea through I Look, ancient ~vahls, upon out stern election I Keep, Echoes dear, renietubrance of our breath I And getitle eyes, and hearts of ptire affection, Light us, resolved to Victory ut 1)eatht h JULIA WARD IIow~ ShALL FREEDO~I DROOP AND D1X~ Shall Freedom drool) and die, And ive stand idle by, Wlten coitniless mihhiotis yet unborn Will ask the reasott why? If for bet flag on itighi Yot bravely figltt atid die, Be sure that God ott his gteatTQU Will ttrnrk the reasoti wlty But should ye basely fly, Scared by the battle cry, Tlteit dowtt through all eternity Youll hear the reasoti why. C. G. LEr.~.uiz. SOLDIERS MORNING SONG. (Erhebf eucit ton des Erde.) Ye sleepers, hettr the warthing, Lift tip ~our (lrowsv hietids I Lomi snort tlte steeds Good-tttorain~9!I Forsake yotti grassy teds l The sunlit steel is gletitniug, Uttdimrncd by baittles htcath ; Of gttrlauds uten are dreamitig, And tltiukitig, too, of death. Thou gracious God I in kindness. Look dowti from thy blue rent We rushed utot forth in bhitiduess, By thee to battle sent. Oh, lift on Itighi before tis Thy truths all-conquerimig sign The flag of Christ flotits oer its, The fight, 0 Lord, is thiuc; 47 WAR SONGS FOR FREEMEN. There yet shall come a morning, A morning mild and hri~ht All good 10(11 bless its dawning, And angels bail the sight. Soon from her night of sadness This suffering land shall wake Oh, break, thou day of gladness I Thou day of Frecdom break! Then peals from all the towersA And Peals from every breast, And peace from stormy tours, And love and joy and rest Then songs of triumph loudly Shall swell through all the air, And well remember proudly, We, too, brave blades, ~vere there I Sehenkendorf. C. T. BstooHs. OLD FANEUIL HALL. Jennys Bawbee. Come, soldiers, join a Yankee song, And cheer us as we marelt along, With Yankee voices, fitll and strong, Join in chorus all Our Yankee notions here ~ve bring, Our Yankee eltorits here we sing, So make tlte Dixie forest ring Witlt OLD FAxEUIL HALL I When first our Fathers made us free, When old Kitig George first taxed the tea, They swore they wotild not bend the knee, Bttt artacll them one and all I In days like those the chosen spot To keep the hissing water hot, To pour the tea-haves in the pot, Was OLD FANETJIL HALL! So when to steal our tea and toast, At Sumter first the rebel host Prepared to march along the coast, At Jeff I)aviss eall He stoeti on Sumters tattered flag, To cheer them with the game of brag, He bade them fly his rebel rag On OLD FANECIL hALL. But wars a game that two can play, They waked its tip that very day, And bade the Yankees come away Down Southat Abrams call And so I learned my faeings right, And so I packed my knapsack tight, And then I spent the parting night In OLD FANaUIL HALL. And on that day which draws so nigh, When rebel ranks our steel shall try When sounds at last the closing cry Charge bayonetsall ! The Yankee shout from fhr and near Which broken ranks in flying hear, Shall be a rousing Northern cheer From OLD FANETJIL HALL. B. E. HAXis. TRUMPET SONG-. Tn~ battle-drums loud rattle is rending the air, The troopers all are mounted, their sabres are bare; The guns are unlimbered, the bayonets shine, Hark! hark! tis the trumpet-call! wheel into line! Tarn! tatata! Trum trum, tra ra ra in! Beat drums atid blow trumpets! Hurrah, boys, hurrah! March onward, soldiers, onward, the strife is begun, Loud bellowing rolls the boom of the black. throated gun; The rifles are cracking, the torn banners toss, The sabres are clashing, the bayonets cross, Ta in, etc. Down with the leaguing liars, the traitors to their trtmst Who trampled the fair charter of Freedom in dust! They falter they waver they scatter they run The field is our own, and the battle is won I Ta in, etc. God save our mighty people and prosper our cause! Were fighting for our nation, our land, and our laws! Though tyrants may hate us, their threats we defy, And drum-heat and trumpet shall peal our reply! Ta ra! ta ta ta! Beat drums arid blow trumpets I Trum trum, tin ra inn in! Hurrah, boys, hurrah! 0. W. HOLMES. 48

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The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 971 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 10, 1863 0076 971
The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 971 49-96

THE LIVING AGE. No. 971. 10 January, 1863. CONTENTS. 1. Chronicles of Carlingfo~d, . Salem chapel, Part 11, 2. Professor Wilson Blackwoods Magazine, 3. Failures of French Diplomacy, Spectator, 4. Defect of American Institutions, Economist, 5. The Ancient Ways N. Y. Evening Post, 6. Count Gurowskis Diary . - 7. The Dark Side; The Bright Side; The Practical Side, Daily Advertiser, PoETRv.True or False, 50. November, 50. The Union as it shall be, 96. Victoria Regina, 96. SHOItT AIttIcLEs.Turkish Great Exhibition, 68. PACE. 51 69 83 85 87 93 94 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SONS & CO., BO S TON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted direct4s to the 1u5liskers, the Lsvueo Aes will be punctually for. warded free of postage. Complet~ sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty v6lumes, hand. comely bound, packed in neat bnxe~, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. Aax vo,.nses may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. Aav s~uilen-a may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they-may ha~ve, and thus greatly enhance their value. TRUE OR FALSE. NOVEMBER. TRUE OR FALSE. I. So you think you love me, do you? Well, it may be so But there are many ways of loving I have learnt to know. Many ways, and but one true way, Which is very rare, And the counterlWts look brightest, Though they will not wear. II. Yet they ring, almost, quite truly, Last (with care) for long; But in time must break, may shiver At a touch of wrong! Having seen ~vhat looked most real Crumble into dust; Now 1 choose that test and trial Should precede my trust. III. I have seen a love demanding Time and hope and tears, Chaining all the past, exacting Bonds from future years; Mind and heart, and joy and sorrow, Claiming as its fee: That was Love of Self, and never, Never Love of me I Iv. I have seen a love forgetting All above, beyond, Linkin~ every dream and fancy In a sweeter bond; Counting every hour ~vorthless, Which was cold or free : That, perhaps, was Love of Pleasure, But not Love of me I V. I have seen a love whose patience Never turned aside, Full of tender, fond devices; Constant, even when tried Smallest boons were held as victories, Drops that swelled the sea: That I think was Love of Power, But not Love of me! V.. I have seen a love disdaining Ease and pride and fame, Burninb even its own white pinions Just to feed its flame; Reigning thus, supreme, triumphant, By the souls decree; That was Love of Love, I fancy, But not Love of me I V.. I have heard or dreamt, it may be What Love is when true; How to test and how to try it, Is the gift of few: These few say (or did I dream it?) That true Love abides In these very things, but always Has a soul besides. VI. Lives among the false loves, knowing Just their peace and strife; Bears the self-same looks but always Has an inner life. Only a true heart can find it, True as it is true, Only eyes as clear and tender Look it through and through. Ix. If it dies, it will not perish By Times slow decay, True Love only grows (they tell me) Stronger, day by day: Pain has been its friend and comrade; Fate it can defy; Only by its own sword, sometimes Love can choose to die. x. And its grave shall be more noble And more sacred still, Than a throne, where one less worthy Reigns and rules at will. Tell me then, do you dare offer rhis true Love to me? Neither you nor I can answer; We will wait and see! ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. NOVEMBER. DEFYING Autumns chilly breath, and Winters chilling moon, November ~vafts upon its breeze the sunny smiles of June; The air retains its balmy warmth, the leaves their tinted green, And in the li~ht that bathes the night the love of God is seen. The brooklets draw the moonbeams downin- hale them with each breath Then sing in joyous happiness, nor think of coming death; But even now the Arctic King is riding closo behind them, And wielding with the Northern blast his man- acles to bind them. Youve watched, perhaps, the sudden glow upon a dying face, As if the parting soul foresaw its future dwelling- place~ And then youve seen the cold, cold clay stretched out upon the bier, To sleep the long and dreaded sleep that knows no waking here. Well, even so the season dies; ere yet it takes its flight, The waning sun and harvest-moon pour forth their flood of light; And then the clouds grow dark and sad, and weep teardrops of rain: For days and months have gone to sleep, and no er shall wake agata. 50 SALEM CHAPEL. PART XI.CJIAPTER XXXVI. MR. PIGEON was a heavy orator, he was ~ tall man, badly put together, with a hol- low crease across his waistcoat, which looked very much as if he might be folded in two, and so laid away out of mischief. His arms moved foolishly about ia the agonies of ora- tory, as if they did not belong to him; but he did not look absurd through Mrs. Vin- cents crape veil, as she sat gazing at the platform on which he stood, and taking in with eager ears every syllable that came from his lips. Mr. Pigeon said it was Mr. Vincent as they had come there to discuss that night. The managers had made up their minds as it was a dooty to lay things before the flock. Mr. Vincent was but a young man, and most in that congregation was ready to make allowances; and as for misfortunes as might have happened to him, he wasnt a-going to lay that to the pastors charge, nor take no mean advantages. He was for judging a man on his merits, he was. If they was to take Mr. Vincent on his mer- its without no prejudice, they would find as he hadnt carried out the expectations as was formed of him. Not as there was any- thing to be said against, his preaching, his preaching was well enough, though it wasnt to call rousing up, which was what most folks wanted. There wasnt no desire on the part of the managers to object to his preach- ing: he had ought to have preached well, that was the truth, for every one as had been con- nected with Salem in Mr. Tuftons time knew as there was a deal of difference be- tween the new pastor and the old pastor, as far as the work of a congregation went. As for Pigeons own feelings, he would have held his peace cheerful, if his dooty had per- mitted him, or if he had seen as it was for the good of the connection. But things was come to that pass in Salem as a man hadnt ought to mind his own feelings, but had to do his dooty, if he was to be took to the stake for it. And them were his circum- stances, as many a one as he had spoken to in private could say, if they was to speak lip. To all this Mrs. Vincent listened with the profoundest attention behind her veil. The schoolroom was very full of peoplealmost as full as on the last memorable tea-party; but the square lines of the gas-burners, coming down with two flaring lights each 51 from the low roof, were veiled with no fes- tooiis this time, and threw an unmitigated glare upon the people, all in their dark win- ter dresses, without any attempt at special embellishment. Mrs. Pigeon was in the fore- ground, on a side-bench near the platform, very visible to the ministers mother, nod- ding her head and giving triumphant glances around now and then to point her husbands confused sentences. Mrs. Pigeon had her daughters spread out on one side of her, all in their best bonnets, and at the corner of the same seat sat little Mrs. Tufton, who shook her charitable head when the poulter- ers wife nodded hers, and put her handker- chief to her eyes now and then, as she gazed up at the platform, not without a certain womanly misgiving as to how her husband was going to conduct himself. The Tozers had taken up their position opposite. Mrs. Tozer and her daughter had all the appear- ance of being in great spirits, especially Phs~be, who seemed scarcely able to contain her amusement as Mr. Pigeon went on. All this Mrs. Vincent saw as clearly as in a pic- ture through the dark folds of her veil. She sat back as far as she could into the shade, and pressed her hands close together, and was noways amused, but listened with as profound an ache of anxiety in her heart as if Pigeon had been the Lord Chancellor. As for the audience in general, it showed some signs of weariness as the poulterer stumbled on through his confused speech; and not a rest- less gesture, not a suppressed yawn in the place, but was apparent to the ministers mother. The heart in her troubled bosom beat steadier as she gazed; certainly no vio- lent sentiment actuated the good people of Salem as they sat staring with calm eyes at the speaker. Mrs. Vincent knew how a con- gregation looked when it was thoroughly excited and up in arms against its head. She drew a long breath of relief, and suffered the tight clasp of her hands to relax a lit- tle. There was surely no popular passion there. And then Mr. Tufton got up, swaying heavily with his large uncertain old figure over the table. The old minister sawed the air with his white fat hand after he had said My beloved brethren twice over; and little Mrs. Tufton, sitting below in her im- patience and anxiety lest he should not ac- quit himself well, dropped her handkerchief CHRONICLJIS OF CARLINGFORD. and disappeared after it, while Mrs. Vincent erected herself under the shadow of her veil. Mr. Tufton did his young brother no good. He was so sympathetic over the misfortunes that had befallen Vincents family, that bit- ter tears came to the widows eyes, and her hands once more tightened in a silent strain of self-support. While the old minister im- pressed upon his audience the duty of bear- ing with his dear young brother, and being indulgent to the faults of his youth, it was all the poor mother could do to keep silent, to stifle down the indignant sob in her heart, and keep steady in her seat. Perhaps it was some breath of anguish escaping from her un- awares that drew towardsher therestless gleam- ing eyes of another strange spectator there. That restless ghost of a woman !all shrunken, gleaming, ghastlyher eyes looking all about in an obliquity of furtive glances, fearing yet daring everything. When she found Mrs. Vincent out, she fixed her suspicious, des- perate gaze upon the crape veil which hid the widows face. The deacons of Salem were to Mrs. Hilyard but so many wretched masquers playing a rude game among the dreadful wastes of life, of which these poor fools were ignorant. Sometimes she watched them with a reflection of her old amusement .oftener, pursued by her own tyrannical fancy and the wild restlessness which had brought her here, forgot altogether where she was. But Mrs. Vincents sigh, which breathed unutterable things the steady fixed composure of that little figure while the old minister maundered on with his con- dolences, his regrets, his self-glorification over the interest he had taken in his dear young brother, and the advice he had given himcould not miss the universal scrutiny of this strange womans eyes. She divined, with a sudden awakening of the keen intelli- gence which was half crazed by this time, yet vivid as ever, the state of mind in which the widow was. With a half-audible cry the Back Grove Street needlewoman. gazed at the ?ninisters mother; in poignant trouble, anxiety, indignant disttess clasping her tender hands together yet again to control the impatience, the resentment, the aching mortification and injury with which she heard all this maudlin pity overflowing the name of her boy yet, nfl! what a world apart from the guilty and desperate spirit which sat there gazing like Dives at Lazarus. Mrs. ililyard slid out of her seat with a rapid, stealthy movement, and placed herself un- seen by the widows side. The miserable woman put forth her furtive hand and took hold of the black gownthe old black silk gown, so well worn and long preserved. Mrs. Vincent started a little, looked at her, gave her a slight half-spasmodic nod of rec- ognition, and returned to her own absorb- ing interest. The interruption made her raise her head a little higher under the veil, that not even this stranger might imagine Arthurs mother to be affected by what was going on. For everything else, Mrs. liii- yard had disappeared out of the widows memory. She was thinking only of her son~ As for the other ministers wife, Poor Mrs. Tuftons handkerchief dropped a great many times during her husbands speech. Oh, if these blundering men, who mismanage mat~. ters so, could but be made to hold their peace! Tears of vexation and distress came into the eyes of the good little woman. Mr. Tufton meant to do exactly what was right; she knew he did; but to sit still and hear him making such a muddle of it all! Such penalties have to be borne by dutiful wives. She had to smile feebly, when he concluded) to somebody who turned ro~rnd to congratu- late her upon the ministers beautiful speech. The beautiful speech had done poor Vincent a great deal more harm than Pigeons ora- tion. Salem folks, being appealed to on this side, found out that they had, after all, made great allowances for their minister, alid that he had not on his~art shown a due sense of their indulgence. Somebody else immediately after went on in the same strain: a little commotion began to rise in the quiet meeting. Mr. Tuftons it it, said a malcontent near Mrs. Vincent; weve been a deal too generous, thats what weve been; and hes turned on uS. He was always too high for m~j fancy, said another. It aint the thing f~r a pas- tor to be high-minded; and theni lectures and things was never nothing but vanity; and so I always said, Mrs. Vincent smiled a wan smile to herself under her veil. Sbo refused to let the long breath escape from her breast in the form of a sigh. She sat fast, upright, holding her hands claspecb Things were going against Arthur. Unseen among all his foes, with an answer, and niore than an answer, to everything they 52 SALEM CHAPEL. said, burning in dumb restrained eloquence in her breast, his mother held up his ban- ner. One at least was there who knew Ar- thur, and lifted up a dumb protest on his behalf to earth and heaven. She felt with an uneasy half-consciousness that some haunting shadow was by her side, and was even vaguely aware of the hold upon her dress, but had no leisure in her mind for anything but the progress of this contest, and the gradual overthrow, accomplishing before her eyes, of Arthufs cause. It was at this moment that Tozer rose up to make that famous speech which has im- mortalized him in the connection, and for which the Homerton students, in their en- thusiasm, voted a piece of plate to the wor- thy butterman. The face of the Salem firmament was cloudy when Tozer rose; suggestions of discontent were surging among the audience. Heads of families were stretching over the benches to confide to each other how long it was since they had seen the minister; how he had aever visited as he ought; and how desirable a change might prove. Spiteful glances of triumph sought poor Phoebe and her mother upon their bench, where the two began to fail in their courage, and laughed no longer. A crisis was approaching. Mrs. Tufton picked up her handkerchief, and sat erect, with a frightened face; she, too, knew the symp- toms of the coming storm. Such were the circumstances under which Tozer rose in the pastors defence. Ladies and gentlemen, said Tozer, and Mr. Chairman, as I ought to have said first, if this meeting had been consti- stuted like most other meetings have been in Salem; but, my friends, we havent met not in what I would call an honest and straightforward way, and consequently we aint in order, not as a free assembly should be, as has met to know its own mind, and not to be dictated to by nobody. There are them as are ready to dictate in every body of men. I dont name no names; I dont make no suggestions; what Im a-stating of is a general truth as is well known to every one as has studied philosophy. I dont come here pretending as Im a learned man, nor one as knows better nor my neighbors. Im a plain man, as likes everything fair and above board, and is content when Im well off. What Ive got to say to you, ladies and 53 gentlemen, aint no grumbling nor reflecting upon them as is absent and cant defend themselves. Ive got two things to say first, as I think you havent been called to- gether not in an open way; and, secoud, that I think us Salem folks, as ought to know better, is a-quarrelling with our bread- and-butter, and dont know when were well oiL! Yes, ladies and gentlemen! thems my sentiments! we dont know when were well off! and if we dont mind, well find out how matters really is when weve been and dis- gusted the pastor, and drove hug to throw it all up. Such a thing aint uncommon; many and manys the one in our connection as has come out for the ministry, meaning nothing but to stick to it, and has been drove by them as is to be found in every flock them as is always ready to dictate~to throw it all up. My friends, the pastor as is the subject of this meeting here Tozer sank his voice, and looked round with a certain solemnity Mr. Vincent, ladies and gen.. tlemen, as has doubled the seat-holders in Salem in six months work, and, I make bold to say, brought one-half of you as is here to be regular at chapel, and take an interest in the connectionMr. Vincent, I say, as youre all collected here to knock down in the dark, if so be as you are willing to be dictated to the same, ladies and gentlemen, as were a-discussing of to-night~told us all,~t aint so very long ago, in the crowdedest meeting as I ever see, in the biggest public hall in Carlingfordas we werent keeping up to the standard of the old Nonconform- ists, nor showing, as we ought, what a vol- untary church could do. It aint pleasant to hear of, for us as thinks a deal of ourselves; but that is what the pastor said, and there was not a man as could contradict it. Now, I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, what is the reason P Its all along of this as were do- ing to-night. Weve got a precious young man, as Mr. Tufton tells you, and a clever young man, as nobody tries for to deny; and there aint a single blessed reason on this earth why he shouldnt go on as hes been n-doing, till, Salem hem crowded out to the doors (as its been two Sundays hack), wed have had to build a new chapel, and took a place in our connection as weve never yet took in Carlingford! Mr. Tozer paused to wipe his heated fore- 54 CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD. head, and ease his exeit~d bosom with a long in the world as it ought, heres some one as breath; his audience paused with him, tak- 1jumps up and says, The pastor dont come ing breath with the orator in a slight univer- to see me, says he the pastor dont do his sal rustle, which is the most genuine applause. dootyhe aint the man for Salem. And them The worthy butterman resumed in a lowered as is always in every flock ready to do a mis- and emphatic tone. chief, takes it up; and theres talk of a But it aint to be, said Tozer, looking change, and meetings is called, andhere round him with a tragic frown, and shaking we are! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, here his head slowly. Them as is always a-find- we are! Weve called a meeting, all in the ing fault, and always a-setting up to dictate, dark, and give him no chance of defending has set their faces again all that. Its the hisself; and them as is at the head of this way of some folks in our connection, ladies movement is call~ng upon us to dismiss Mr. and gentlemen; a minister aint to be al- Vincent. But let me tell you, continued lowed to go on building up a chapel, and Tozer, lowering his voice with a dramatic making hisself useful in the world. He intuition, and shaking his forefinger still aint to be left alone to do his dooty as his more emphatically in the face of the startled best friends approve. Hes to be took down audience, that this aint no question of dis- out of his pulpit, and took to pieces be- missing. Mr. Vincent; its a matter of dis~- hind his back, and made a talk and a scan- gusting Mr. Vincent, thats what it isits a dal of to the whole connection! Its not his matter of turning another promising young preaching as hes judged by, nor his dooty man away from the connection, and driving to the sick and dyin, nor any of them things him to throw it all up. You mark what I as he was called to be pastor for; but its say. Ita what were doing most places, us if hes seen going to one house more nor an- Dissenters; them as is talented and prom- other, or if he calls often enough on this one isin, and can get a better living working for or tother, and goes to all the tea-drinkings. the world than working for the chapel, and My opinion is, said Tozer, suddenly break- wont give in to be worried about calling here ing off into jocularity, as a young man as and calling therewere a-driving of them maybe isnt a marrying man, and anyhow out of the connection, thats what were do- can t marry more nor one, aint in the safest ing! I could reckon up as many as six or place at Salem tea-drinkings; but thats nei- seven as has been drove off already; and I thor here nor there. If the ladies havent no ask you, ladies and gentlemen, whats the pity, us men cant do nothing in that mat- good of subscribing and keeping up of col- ter; but what I say is this, continued the leges and so forth, if thats how your a-going butterman, once more becoming solemn; to serve every clever young man as trusts to go for to judge the pastor of a flock, hisself to be your pastor P Im a man as not by the dooty he does to his flock, but by dont feel no shame to. say that the minister, the times he calls at one house or another, being took up with his family affairs and his and the way he makes hisself agreeable at studies, has been for weeks as he hasnt one place or another, aint a thing to be done. crossed my door; but am I that poor-spir- by them as l)fldes themselves~ on being Chris- ited as I would drive away a young man as is tians and Dissenters. Its not like Christians one of the best preachers in the connection, and if its like Dissenters the mores the because he dont come, not every day, to see pity. Its mean, thats what it is, cried Tozer, me P No, my friends! them as would ever with fine scorn; its like a parcel of old suspect such a thing of me dont know who women, if the ladies wont mind me saying theyre dealing with; and I tell you, ladies so. Its beneath us as has liberty of con- and gentlemen, as this is a question as must science to fight for, and has to set an exam- come home to every one of your bosoms. ple before the Church folks as dont know Them as is so set upon their own way that no better. But its what is done in our con- they cant hear reasonor them as is led nection, added the good deacon with pathos, away by folks as like to dictatemay give shaking his forefinger mournfully at the their voice again the minister, if so be as crowd. When theres a young man as is they think fit; but as for me, and thorn as clever and talented, and fills a chapel, and stands by me, I aint a-going to give in to no gives the connection a chance of standing up such tyranny! It shall never be said in our SALEM CHAPEL. connection as a clever young man was drove away from Carlingford, and I had a part in it. Theres the credit o the denomination to keep up among the Church folksand theres the chapel to fill, as never had half the sittings let beforeand theres Mr. Vincent, as is the cleverest young man I ever see in our pulpit, to be kep in the connection; and there aint no man living as shall dictate to me or them as stands by me! Theni as is content to lose the best preaching within a hundred miles, because the minister dont call on two or three families in Salem, not as often as they would like to see him, said Tozer, with trenchant sarcasm, can put down their names again Mr. Vincent; but for me, and them as stands by me, we aint a-going to give in to no such dictation: we aint a-going to set up ourselves against the spread of the Gospel, and the credit o the connection, and toleration and freedom of conscience, as were bound to fight for! If the pastor dont make hisseif agreeable, I can put up with thatI can; but I aint a-going to see a clever young man drove away from Salem, and the sittings vacant, and, the chapel falling to ruin, and the Church folks n-laughing and a-jeering at us, not for all the deacons in the connection, nor any man in Carlingford. And this I say for myself and for all as stands by me!~ The last sentence was lost in thunders of applause. The Salem folks stamped with their feet, knocked the floor with their um- brellas, clapped their hands in afurore of enthusiasm and sympathy. Their pride was appealed to; nobody could bear the impu- tation of being numbered among the two or three to whom the minister had not paid suf- ficient attention. All the adherents of the Pigeon party deserted that luckless family sitting prominent upon their bench, with old Mrs. Tufton at the corner joining as heartily as her overshoes would permit in the gen- eral commotion. There they sat, a pale line of faces, separated, by their looks of dismay and irresponsive silence, from the applaud- ing crowd, cruelly identified as them as is always ready to dictate. The occasion was indeed a grand one, had the leader of the opposition been equal to it; but Mrs. Pigeon only sat and stared at the new turn of affairs with a hysterical smile of spite and disap- pointment fixed on her face. Before the cheers died away, a young manone of the young Mens Christian Association con- nected with Salem.~umpcd up on a bench in the midst of the assembly, and clinched the speech of Tozer. He told the admiring meeting that he had been brought up in the connection, but had strayed away into care- lessness and neglectand when he went anywhere at all on Sundays, went to church like one of the common multitude, till Mr. Vincents lecture on Church and State opened his eyes, and brought him to better knowledge. Then came another, and an- other. Mrs. Vincent, sitting on the back seat with her veil over her face, did not hear what they said. The heroic little soul had broken down, and was lost in silent tears, and utterances in her heart of thanksgiving, deeper than words. No comic aspect of the scene appeared to her; she was not moved by its vulgarity or oddity. It was deliver- ance and safety to the ministers mother. Her sons honor and his living were alike safe, and his people had stood by Arthur. She sat for some time longer, lost in that haze of comfort and relief, ~afraid to move lest perhaps something untoward might still occur to change this happy state of affairs-~. keen to detect any evil symptom, if such should occur, but unable to follow with any exactness the course of those addresses which still continued to be made in her hearing. She was not quite sure, indeed, whether anybody had spoken after Tozer, when, with a step much less firm than on her entrance, she went forth, wiping the tears that blinded her from under her veil, into the darkness and quiet of the street outside. But she knew that resolutions of support and sympathy had been carried by acclamation, and that somebody was de- puted from the flock to assure the minister of its approval, and to offer him the new lease of popularity thus won for him in Sa.. lem. Mrs. Vincent waited to hear no more. She got up softly and went forth on noise- less, weary feet, which faltered, now that her anxiety was over, with fatigue and agi- tation. Thankful to the bottom of her heart, yet at the same time doubly worn out with that deliverance, confused with the lights, the noises, and the excitement of the scene, and beginning already to take up her other burden, and to wonder by times, waking up with sharp touches of renewed anguish, how she might find Susan, and whether any change had appeared in her other child. 55 56 It was thus that ~the gr~it Salem congrega- tional meeting, so renowned ia the connec- tion, ended for the ministers mother. ~he left them stiM making speeches when she emerged into Grove Street. The political effect of Tozers address, or the influence which his new doctrine might have on the denomination, did not occur to Mrs. Vin- cent. She was thinking only of Arthur. Not even the darker human misery by her side had power to break through her pre- occupation. How the gentle little woman had shaken off that anxious hand which grasped her old black dress, she never knew herself, nor could any one tell; somehow she had done it: alone, as she entered, she went away againsecret, but not clandes- tine, under that veil of her widowhood. She put it up from her face when she got into the street, and wiped her tears off with a trem- bling, joyful hand. She could not see her way clearly for those tears of joy. When they were dried, and the crape shadow put back from her.~ace, Mrs. Vincent looked up Grove Street, where her road lay in the darkness, broken by those flickering lamps. It was a windy night, and Dr. Riders drag went up past her rapidly, carrying the doc- tor home from some late visit, and recalling her thoughts to her own patient whom she had left so long. She quickened her trem- ulous steps as Dr. Rider disappeared in the darkness; but almost before she had got beyond the last echoes of the Salem meeting, that shadow of darker woe and misery than any the poor mother wist of, was again by Mrs. Vincents side. CHAPTER XXXVII. You are not able to walk so fast, said Mrs. Hilyard, coming up to the widow as she crossed over to the darker side of Grove Street, just where the house of the Misses Hemmiags turned its lighted staircase-win- dow to the street; and it will not harm you to let me speak to you. Once you of- fered me your hand, and would have gone with me. It is a long, long time agoages sincebut I remember it. I do not come after you for nothing. Let me speak. You said you were na ministers wife, and knew human nature, she continued, with a certain pause of reverence, and at the same time a gleam of amusement, varying for a moment the blank and breathless voice in CHRONICLES OF CARLINGEORD. which she had spoken. I want your ad- vice. Mrs. Vincent, who had paused with an uncomfortable sensation of being pursued, recovered herself a little during this ad- dress. The ministers mother had no heart to linger and talk to any one at that mo- ment, after all the excitement of the even- ing, with her fatigued frame and occupied mind; but still she was the ministers mother, as ready and prepared as Arthur himself ought to have been, to hear any- thing that any of the flock might have to say to her, and to give all the benefit of be experience to anybody connected with Salem who might be in trouble. I beg your par- don, said Mrs. Vincent; my daughter is illthat is why I was making so much haste; but I am sure, if I can be of any use to any member ofI mean to any of my sons friends she concluded, rather ab- ruptly. She did not remember much about this woman, who was strangely unlike the other people in Salem. When was that time in which they had met before? The wid- ows mind had been so swept by the whirl- wind of events and emotions, that she re- membered only dimly how and where it was she had formerly seen her strange compan- ion. Your daughter is ill? said Mrs.. Hil- yard; that is how trouble happens to you. You are a good woman; you dont interfere in Gods business; and this is how your trouble comes. You can nurse her, and be about her bed; and when she wakes up, it is to see you and be grateful to you. But my child, she said, touching the widows arm suddenly with her hand, and suppress- ing painfully a shrill tone of anguish in her voice which would break through, does not know me. She opens her blue eyes they are not even my eyesthey are Alices eyes, who has no right to my childand looks at me as if I were a stranger; and for all this time, since I parted with her, I have not heardI do not know where she is. Hush, hush, hush! she went on, speak- ing to herself, to think that this is me, and that I should break down so at last. A woman has not soul enough to subdue her nerves forever. But this is not what I wanted to say to you. I gave Miss Smith your sons address Having said this, she paused, and looked SALEM CHAPEL. 57 anxiously at the widow, who looked at her she was with me, ~d he traced usthen also in the windy gleams of lamplight with I sent the child away. I have not seen her more and more perplexity. Who is Miss but in glimpses, lest he should find her. It Smith? asked poor Mrs. Vincent. Who has cost me all I had, and I have lived and are~you? Indeed, I am very sorry to worked with my hands, said the needle- seem rude; but my mind has been so much woman of Back Grove Street, lifting her thin occupied. Arthur, of course, would know fingers to the light and looking at them, if he were here, but Susans illness has pathetic vouchers to the truth of her story. taken up all my thoughts; and I beg When he drove me desperate, she went your pardonshe may want me even now, on, labouring in vain to conceal the panting, she continued, quickening her steps. Even long-drawn breath which impeded her utter- the courtesy due to one of the flock had a ance, you know? I dont talk of that. The limit; and the ministers mother knew it child put her arms round that old woman was necessary not to yield too completely to after her mother had saved her. She had all the demands that her sons people might not a word, not a word for me, who had make upon her. Was this even one of her done But it was all for her sake. This sons people? Such persons were unusual is what I have had to suffer. She looked in in the connection. Mrs. Vincent, all fa- my face and waved me away from her and tigued, excited, and anxious as she was, felt said Susan, Susan U Susan meant your at her wits end. daughtera new friend, a creature whom Yes, your son Would know if he were she had not seen a week beforeand no here; he has taken my parole and trusted word, no look, no recognition for me. me, said the strange woman; but a womans Oh, I am very sorry, very sorry ! said parole should not be taken. I try to keep Mrs. Vincent, in her turn taking the poor it; but unless they come or I have news thin hand with an instinct of consolation. Who am I? I am a woman that was once Susans name thus introduced, went to the young and had friends. They married me mothers heart. She could have wept over to a man, who was not a man, but a fine the other mother thus complaining, moaning organization caj~able of pleasures and cruel- out her troubles in her compassionate ear. ties. Dont speak. You are very good; I left them in a safe place. I came you are a ministers wife. You dont know home to fall into your sons hands. He what it is, when one is young and happy, to might have been sure, had it come to that, find out allat once that life means only so that no one should have suffered for me, much torture and misery, and so many lies, said Mrs. Hilyard, with again a tone of bit.! either done by you or borne by youwhat terness. What was my life worth, could does it matter which? My baby came into any man suppose? And since then I hav& the world with a haze on her sweet soul not heard a wordnot a wordwhether the because of that discovery. If it had been child is still where I left her, or whether some but her body! said Mrs Vincents strange of his people have found heror whether she companion, with bitterness. A dwarfed is illor whetherI know nothing, noth- creature or deformed, or But she was ing! Have a little pity upon me, you in~ beautiful she is beautiful, as pretty as nocent woman! I never asked pity, never Alice; and if she Jives she will he rich. sought sympathy before; but a woman can Hush, Hush! you dont know what my fears never tell what she may be brought to. I were, continued Mrs. Hilyard, with a am brought down to the lowest depths. I strange humility, once more putting her cannot stand upright any longer, she cried~ hand on the widows arm. If he could have with a wailing sigh. I want somebody~ got possession of her, how could I tell what somebody at least to give me a little conk he might have done ?killed herbut that fort. Comfort! I remember, she said, would have been dangerous; poisoned what with one of those sudden changes of tone little mind she~ had leftmade her like her which bewildered Mrs. Vincent, your son mother. I stole her away. Long ago, when once spoke to me of getting comfort from I thought she might have been safe with those innocent young sermons of his. Ha you, I meant to have told you. I stole knows a little better now; he does not sail he2r out. of his power. For a little while over the surface now as he used to do i~ CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD. triumph. Life has gone hard with him, as with me and all of us. Tell him, if I get no news I will break my parole. I cannot help myselfa womans honor is not her word. I told him so. Say to your son My son? what have you to do with my son? said Mrs. Vincent, with a sudden pang. The poor mother was but a woman too. She did not understand what this con- nection was. A worn creature not much younger than herself, what possible tie could bind her to Arthur? The widow, like other women, could believe in any infatuation of men; but could not understand any other bond suhsisting between these two. The thought went to her heart. Young men had been known before now to be mysteriously attracted by women old, unbeautiful, unlike themselves. Could this be Arthurs fate? Perhaps it was a danger more dismal than that which he had just escaped in Salem. Mrs. Vincent grew sick at heart. She re- peated, with an asperity of which her soft voice might have been thought incapable, What have you to do with my son? Mrs. Hilyard made no answerperhaps she did not hear the question. Her eyes, always restlessly turning from one object to another, had found out, in the lighted street to which they had now come, a belated post- man delivering his last letters. She fol- lowed him with devouring looks; he went to Vincents door as they approached, delivered something, and passed on into the darkness with a careless whistle. While Mrs~ Vincent watched her companion with doubtful and suspicious looks through the veil which, once more among the lights of Grange Street, the ministers mother had drawn over her face, the unconscious object of her suspicion grasped her arm, and turned to her with beseeching eyes. It may be news of my child? she said, with a supplication beyond words. She drew the widow on with the desperation. of her anxiety. The little maid had still the letter in her hand when she opened the door. It was not even for Mr. Vincent. It was for the mis- tress of the house, who had not yet returned from the meeting at Salem. Mrs. Vincent paused upon the threshold, compassionate but determined. She looked at the unhappy woman who stood upon the steps in the light of the lamp, gazing eagerly in at the door, and resolved that she should pcnetrate no farther; but even in the height of her deter.. mination the widows heart smote her when she looked at that face, so haggard and worn with passion and anxiety, with its furtive gleaming eyes, and all the dark lines of en- durance which were so apparent now, when the tide of emotion had grown too strong to be concealed. have younofriends in Carlingford ? said the widow with hesita- tion and involuntary pity. She could not ask her to enter where, perhaps, her presence might be baleful to Arthur; but the little womans tender heart ached, even in the midst, of her severity, for the suffering in that face. Nowhere! said Mrs. Hulyard; then with a gleam out of her eyes which took the place of a smile, Do not be sorry for me; I want no friendsnobody could share my burden with me, I am going backhome to Alice. Tell Mr. Vincent; I think some- thing must happen to-night, she added with a slight shiver; it grows intolerable, be- yond hearing. Perhaps by the telegraph or perhaps-.-- And Miss Smith has this address. I told you my story, she went on, drawing closer, and taking the widows hand, that you might hive pity on me, and understandno, not understand; how could she ?but if you were like me, do you think you could sit still in one place, with so much upon your heart? You never could be like mebut if you had lost your child I did, said Mrs. Vincent, drawing a painful breath at the recollection, and drawn unwittingly by the sight of the terrible anx- iety before her into a reciprocation of confi- dence, my child who had been in my arms all her lifeGod gave her back again; and now, while I am speaking, he may be taking her away, said the mother, with a sudden return of all her anxiety. I cannot do you any good, and Susan may want me: good- nightgood-night. It was not God who gave her back to you, said Mrs. Hilyard, grasping the wid- ows hand closer, it was Iremember it was I. When you think hardly of me, rec- ollectI did it. She might have beenbut I freed herremember; and if you hear any- thing, if it were but a whisper, of my child, think of it and have pity on me. You will P you understand what I say? The widow drew away her hand with a 58 SALEM CEIAPEL. pang of fear. She retreated hurriedly, yet with what dignity she could, calling the lit- tle maid to shut the door. When that strange face, all gleaming, haggard, and anxious, was shut out into the night, Mrs. Vincent went up-stairs very hastily, scarcely able to give her alarmed withdrawal the aspect of an orderly retreat. Was this woman mad to whom she had been speaking so calmly? In her agitation she forgot all the precautions with which she had intended to soften to her son the fact of her attendance at that meet- ing of which he had not even informed her. Pursued by the recollection of that face, she hastened to Arthur, still in her bonnet and veil. He was seated at the table writing as when she left him; but all the ministers self-control could not conceal a certain ex- pectancy and excitement in the eyes which he raised with a flash of eager curiosity to see who it was that thus invaded his solitude. Mother! where have you been? he asked, with irritation, when he perceived her. His impatience and anxiety, and the great effort he had made to subdue both, betrayed him into a momentary outburst of annoyance and vex- ation. Where have you been? he re- peated, throwing down his pen. Surely not to this meeting, to compromise me, as if I had not trouble enough already! This rude accost put her immediate subject out of Mrs. Vincents mind: she went up to her son with deprecating looks, and put her hand fondly on his head. The tears came into her eyes, not because his words offended or grieved her, hut for joy of the good news she had to tell; for the ministers mother ~y~a.s experi- enced in the ways of man, and knew how many things a woman does for love which she gets no thanks for doing. Her boys anger did not make her angry, but it drove other matters, less important, out of her head. 0 Arthur, no one saw me, she said: I had my veil down all the time. How could I help going when I knew of it? I did nol tell youI did not mean you to know; but it was impossible to stay away, cried the widow, perceiving her sons impatience while she explained herself, and growing confused in consequence, when I heard what was going on. 0 Arthur, dear, dont look so disturbed; they know better than you imaginethey appreciate you, though they have not the way of showing it. I have 59 seen things happen so differently, that rk~w the value of such friends as you have in the flock. 0 my dear boy, dont look so strange! It has been a great triumph, Ar- thur. There is a deputation coming to offer you their support and sympathy. All this dreadful husiness has not harmed you. Thank God for that! I think I shall be able to bear anything now. The minister got up hastily from his chair, and took refuge on the hearth-rug. He changed color; grew red and grew pale; and by way of escaping from the c%-plica- tion of feelings that moved him, once more broke out into impatient exclamations. Why did you go? Why did not you tell me you were going? he said. Why did you leave Susan, who wanted you? Mother, you will never understand that a mans af- fairs must not be meddled with! cried the Nonconformist, with an instinctive effozt to conceal the agitation into which this unex- pected news threw him. Then he began to pace about the room, exclaiming against the impatience of women, who can never wait for a result. The young man was too proud to acknowledge the state of feverish suspense in which he had been, or the wonderful tu- mult suddenly produced in his mind. He seized upon this ready safety-valve of irrita- tion, which was half real and half flctitio~s. It gave him time to collect his troubled thoughts. Arthur, dear, hush! no one saw me at the meeting. I had my veil down, and spoke to nobody, said the widow; and oh! dont you think it was only natural that your mother should be there? No one in the world is so much interested in what concerns you. I spoke to no oneexcept, said Mrs. Vin- cent, with a little effort, that strange wo- man, Arthur, whom you have had so much to do with. Who is she? 0 my dear boy, I hope you have not formed any connections that you will repent? She said something about a promise, and having given her word. I dont know why you should have her word, or what she has to do with you. She came here to the door with me to-night. Mrs. Hilyard! cried the minister, sud- dently roused. Mrs. no matter what her name is. Where is she? Do you mean that she came here? They keep no watch over her. To-night of all nights in the world! If you bad but stayed at home, I 60 should not have known of her wanderings at least, he said, with vexation. Now I shall have to go and look after hershe ~nust be sent back againshe must not be allowed to escape. Is she mad P said Mrs. Vincent, alarmed, yet relieved. Dont go away, Arthur; she is not here. She said I was to tell you that she had gone backto Alice. Who is Al- ice Pwho is this woman? What have you to do with her P 0 my dear boy, you are a miai~er, and the world is so ready to make remarlA.S he said you had her word. 0 Arthur, I hope it does not mean anything you will live to repent? cried the anxious mother, fixing her jealous eyes on her sons face. She is not like you. I cannot tell what you can have to do with such a woman who might Mrs. Vincents fright and anxiety exhausted both her language and her breath. It does not matter much after all, said the Nonconformist, who had been busy with his own thoughts, and had only half heard his mothers adjurations. Like me P what has that to do with the matter? But I dare say she will go back, as she said; and iiow that he is out of danger, and has not accused her, things must take their chance. ~iad? It would not be wonderful if sho were mad. I can sympathize with people when they are driven out of their wits. Who is this next? Another messenger from the meeting, or perhaps your ~~putation? I think I shall go mad after awhile if I get no rest. But as the minister stood in ill-concealed excitement by the fire, not without expecta- tion that it might be somebody with an offi- ojal report from Salem, Mr. Vincents land- lady, still in her bonnet and shawl, just re- turned from the meeting, came in to tell the widow of the appronch of the doctor. Hes a-coming directly, nitaam: hes gone in for a minute to Smiths, next door, where theyve ~ot the hooping-cough. And 0 Mr. Vin- cent, cried the woman, who had made this a pretence to express her sentiments on the more important subject, if there hasnt a-been a sweet meeting! Id have giv a half-years rent, maam, the pastor had been there. All as unanimous and as friendly 1 all but them Pigeons, as are the poison of the place; and sweet Miss Phoebe Tozer a-crying of k4e~ pretty eyes out; but there CHRONICLES OF CARLTNGFORD. aint no occasion fdr crying now, said the triumphant landlady, who had a real stake in the matter. At this touch the minister regained his composure. He went back to his seat at the table, and took up the pen he had thrown down. A bishop could not have looked more grandly indifferent than did the Nonconformist as be turned his back upon his anxious partisan. Tell the doctor to let me know how Susan is, mother, for I am busy to-night, said the young man. 1 cannot leave my work just now even for Dr. Rider. He began again to write in the ex- citement of his mind, and produced a sen- tence which was not one of the least success- ful of his sentences, while the two women with a certain awe stood silent behind his chair. I will not disturb you any longer, my dear boy. Good-night, said Mrs. Vincent. She went away, followed by the discomfited landlady, who was overwhelmed, and did not know what to make of it. The widow could not but improve such an opportunity. The minister must not be disturbed in his stud- ies, she said, with importance, and in a whis- per as she closed the door. XVhen he is engaged with a subject, it does not answer to go in upon him and disturb his attention. Neither meetings nor anything else, however important, should interrupt a pastor when he is engaged in composition, said the lit- tle woman, grandly. But while the mistress of the house departed to her own quarter much overawed, the ministers mother went to the sick-room with no such composure as she assumed. Something she did not un- derstand was in Arthurs mind. The Salem meeting did not appear to her so conclusive as it had done an hour ago. lie was young and high-spirited and proud, and bad not that dutiful subjection to the opinions of the flock which became a minister of Salem. What if that visionary horror with which she had frightened Tozer might turn out a real danger? Though she had made such skilful use of it, the possihility she had her- self invented bad not really alarmed her; but the thought thrilled through her now with a fear which had some remorse in it. $he had invoked the ghost, not much believ- ing in any such supernatural climax; but if the apparition really made itself~ visible, the widow recognized at once her entire want of any power to lay it. She took off her SALEM CHAPEL. shawl and bonnet with little comfort in her mind on that subject ~Lo support her under the returning pangs of anxiety about Susan, which overwhelmedher again as she opened the door of the sick-room. The two troubles united in her heart and aggravated each other, as with a sick throb of expectation she went in to Susans bedside. Perhaps there might he a change for better or for worse, something might have happened. The doctor might find something more con- clusive to-night in that languid, pallid face. The noiseless room struck her with a chill of misery as she went to her usual place, carrying the active life of pain and a troubled heart into that melancholy atmosphere from which life seemed to have fled. With a fal- tering voice she spoke to Susan, who showed no signs of hearing her except by a feeble, ha~-lifting of her heavy eyelids and restless motion of her frame. No change! Never any change! or at least, as the nurse imag- ined, until-.-.----- The widows heart heaved with a silent sob of anguishanguish sharp and acute as it is when our misery breaks sud- denly upon us out of a veil of other thoughts, and we feel it intolerable. This sudden pang convulsed Mrs. Vincents much-tried heart as she wiped the bitter tears out of her eyes and looked at her child, thus gliding, in a hopeless apathy and unconsciousness, out of the arms that strained themselves in vain to hold her. After so much as she had borne in her troubled life, God knows, it was hard. She did not rebel, but her heart lifted up a bitter cry to the Father in heaven. lit was just then, while her anxious ear caught the step of the doctor on the stair, that Mrs. Vincent was aware also of a car- riage driving rapidly up to the door. Pre- occupied as she was, the sound startled her. A passing wonder who it could be, and the vague expectation which influences the mind at the great crises of life, when one feels that anything may happen, moved her dimly as she rose to receive the doctor. Dr. Rider came in with his noiseless step and anxious face; they shook hands with each other me- chanically, she gazing at him to see what his opinion was before it could be formed he looking with solicitous serious eyes on the sick-bed. The light was dim, and Dr. Rider held it up to see his patient. There she lay, moving now and then with the restlessness of weakness, thepale large cyclidahal? closed, the pale lips dropping apart, a solemn, speechless creature, abstracted already out of this world and all its influences. The light that streamed over her for the moment mude no difference to Susan. There was nothing here powerful enough to rouse the soul which horror and passion had driven into one terrible corner of memory, obliter ating all the rest of her life. Dr. Rider looked at her with eyes in which the impa- tience of powerless strength overcame even his professional reserve. He wrung the wid. o~vs hand, which she laid on his arm in a trembling appeal to him to tell her the worst. The worst is that she is dying before our eyes, and that she might be saved,7 he said~ leading the poor mother to the other end of the room. All her heart and soul are con- centrated upon that time when she was away from you: unless we can rouse her by some- thing that will recall that time, she will never know you more. Think! is there nothing that would wake her up even to remembei~ the misery she endured? Where is your servant who was with her ?~but she has sceix her lately, and nothing has come of that. If you have the courage and strength, said the doctor, once more grasping Mrs. Vin. cents hand tight, to talk of that man un- der the name she knew him byto talk of him so as perhaps she might hear; to dis- cuss the matter; anything that will recall her mind. Hush! what is that noise down- stairs P Even while listening to the doctors dread- ful suggestion, Mrs. Vincent had been award of the opening of the door down-stairs, and of a sound of voices. She was trembling so that she could scarcely stand, principally, no doubt, on account of this strange demand~ which he made upon her strength, but wfth~ a nervous expectation besides which she~ could not explain even to herself; But when, out of that confused commotion be- low, there rose faint but audible the sound of a voice calling Susan! Susan! the two anxious people started apart, and turned a wondering momentary gaze upon each other, involuntarily asking what was that? what did it mean? Then the doctor rushed to the door, where the widow followed hini as well as her trembling limbs would per- mit. She saw him dash down-stairs, and herself stood grasping the railing, waiting for what was about to happen, with~ her 62 heart so beating and fluttering in her breast that she could scarcely breathe for it. She could make nothing of the rapid interroga- tion that went on down-stairs. She heard the voice of the doctor in hasty questions, and the slow, agitated, somewhat confused utterance of a strange vdice, which appeared to answer him; and once or twice through these sounds, came the strange cry, Susan! Susan! which went to the widows heart. Who could this be that called upon Susan with so pathetic a repetition? It seemed a very long interval to Mrs. Vincent before the doctor re-appeared, and yet so short was the time, that the door by which the new-comers, whoever they were, had en- tered, was still open, admitting some strange familiar sounds from the street into the be- wildering maze of wonder and expectation. Mrs. Vincent held fast by the rails to sup- port herself, when she saw the doctor re- turning up the stair, leading by the hand a girl whom he grasped fast, and carried along with him by a kind of gentle but strong compulsion. It was she who was calling Susan, gazing round her with large dilated blue eyes, looking everywhere for something she had not yet found. A beautiful girl, more beautiful than anything mortal to the widows surprised and wondering eyes. Who was she P The face was very young, sadly simple, framed by long curling locks of fair hair, and the broad circle of a large flapping Leghorn hat and blue veil. A bewildered half-recognition came to Mrs. Vincents mind as this blue veil waved in her face in tlw wind from the open door; but excite- ment and anxiety had deprived her of speech: she could ask no questions. Here is the physician, said Dr. Rider, with a kindred excitement in his voice. He went into the room before her, leading the girl, behind~ whom there followed slowly a con- fused and disturbed woman, whose face Mrs. Vincent felt she had seen before. The mother, half jealous in her wonder, pressed in after the doctor to guard her Susan even from experiments of healing. Doctor, doc- tor, who is it? she said. But Dr. Rider held up his hand imperatively to silence her. The room was imperfectly lighted with can- dles burning dimly, and a faint glow of fire- light. Susan!~ cried the eager childs voice, with a weary echo of longing and disappointment. . Susan !take me to Su CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD. san; she is not here. Then Dr. Rider led her round to the bedside, closely followed by the widow, and, lifting a candle, threw its light fully upon the stranger. Is it Su- san? said the girl. Will she not speak to me Pis she dead? Susan, 0 Susan, Susan! It was an outcry of childish im- patience and despair, rising louder than any voice had risen in that room for many a day. Then she burst forth into tears and sobs. Susan !she will not speak to me, she will not look at me! cried the stranger, draw- ing her arm out of the doctors hold, and clasping her hands together. There was a slight movement in the bed: not the restless tossing with which her nurse was familiar, but a trembling shiver came over that dying frame. The sound had reached to the dull ears of the patient. She lifted her heavy eyelids, and looked round with half-aw~k- ened eyes. Call her again, again! said the doctor, in an intense whisper, which seemed to thrill through the room. The girl, who was engaged with a much more engrossing interest of her own, took no no- tice of the doctor. She knew nothing about Susans dangershe was bent on gaining succor for herself. Susan !tell her to look at meat me! Susan! I care for no- body but you! said the lovely, helpless creature, with strange, half-articulate cries, pressing closer to the hid. You are to take care of me. Mrs. Vincent pressed forward with pangs of anxiety, of terror, of hope, and of a mothers tender jealousy, through all, as these strange entreaties filled the room. She, too, cried aloud, as she perceived the awakening in that pallid face, the faint movement as if to raise herself up, which indicated a conscious effort on the part of Susan. The clouds were breaking on that obscured and hopeless firmament. The light which trembled in the doctors hand, caught a gleam of understanding and life in Susans eyes, as her mother flew to raise her up, obeying the suggestion of that unhoped-for movement. Susan! you said you would take care of me! cried the young stranger, throwing herself upon the bedside and grasping at the weak arm which once had protected her. The touch of her hands awoke the slumbering soul. Slowly the light grew in Susans eyes. She who had not moved for days except in the restless tossings of languor, lifted those white feeble SALEM CHAPEL. arms to put them round the appealing child. Then Susan struggled up, faint, yet inspired, unconscious of her mothers help that ena- bled her to do so, and confronted the strange people in her room, whom she had seen for weeks past, but did not know with living eyes. Nobody shall touch herwe will protect each other, said the voice that had grown strange even to her mothers ears. Mrs. Vincent could hardly be restrained from breaking in with a thousand caresses and outcries of joy and thankfulness. But Dr. Rider quieted the poor mother with a touch of his hand. Let them alone, he said, with that authority which no one in a sick-room can resist. Mrs. Vincent kept back with unspeakable pangs in her heart, and watched the waking up of that para- lyzed life which, alike in its loss and its re- covery, had been swept apa~t from her into another world. Without any help from her mother, without even recognizing her mother or distinguishing her from the strangers round, Susans soul awoke. She raised her- self more and more among those pillows where a little while ago she lay so passively she opened her eyes fully and looked round upon the man by her bedside, and the other indistinct figures in the room, with a look of resistance and conscious strength. We will protect each other, said Susan, slowly: nobody shall harm herwe will keep each other safe. Then, after another interval, other instincts awoke in the reviv- ing soul. She cast a wistful look from one to another, always drawing her faint white arm round the girl who clung to her, and found security in her clasp. Hush, hush! there are women here, she said in a whis- per, and with a tone of strange confusion, light breaking through the darkness. Thea there followed a long pause. Dr. Rider stood by the bedside holding up his candle, attracting the wandering, wistful glances of his patient, who ceased to look at him with defiance as her eyes again and again re- turned to the face, of which, often as it had bent over her, she had no knowledge. All over the unknown room wandered those strange looks, interrogating everything with a wistfulness beyond words. What was this strange, unfamiliar world into which, after her trance of suffering, Susan had awak- ened? She did not know where she was, nor who the people were who surrounded 63 her. But the recollection of deadly peril was not more distinct upon her confused mind than was the sentiment of safety, of love, and watchfulness which somehow abode in this strange, dim room, in the little un- decipherable circle of faces which surrounded her bed. Hush ! said Susan again, hold- ing the stranger close. Here are women women! nobody will harm us; then, with a sudden flush over all her face, and cry of joy as the doctor suddenly threw the light full upon Mrs. Vincent, who was bend- ing over her, her mind struggled into pos- session of itself, Here is my mother! she has come to take us home! Mrs. Vincent remembered nothing more; she did not faint, for her child wanted her she sat all the ~iiight through on the bed, with Susan leaning against her shoulder, clinging to her, holding her faststarting again and again to make sure that all was safe, and that it was indeed her mothers arms that held her. Her soul was recalled out of that trance of death. They laid the beautiful child upon the sofa in her young guardians sight, to keep up that happy in- fluence; and when the night was about half spent, the widow, throbbing all over her wearied frame with exhaustion, pain, and joy, perceived that her Susan had fallen deep and sweet asleep, clasping close, as if never again to lose hold of them, her mothers tender hands. CHAPTER XXXVIII. TUE after-events of the evening naturally lessened, in the ministers family at least, the all-absorbing interest of the meeting at Sa- lem. Even Mr. Vincents landlady, in her wondering narrative of the scene in the sick- roomwhich, all Mrs. Vincents usual deco- rums being thrust aside by that unexpected occurrence, she had witnessedforgot the other public event which was of equally great importance. The house was in a state of agitation as great as on Susans return; and when the exulting doctor, whose experiment had been so rarely successful, turned all su- pernumerary persons out of the sick-room, it fell to Vincents part to take charge of the perplexed governess, Miss 5n3ith, who stood outside, anxious to offer explanations, a fa- tigued and harassed, but perfectly virtuous and exemplary woman. Vincent, who had not realized his sisters extreme peril, and CHRONtCLES OF CARLINGFORD. who was rather disconcerted by this fresh invasion of his house, opened the door of his sitting-room for her with more annoyance than hospitality. His own affairs were ur- gent in his mind. He could not keep his thoughts from dwelling upon Salem and what had occurred there, though no one else thought of it. Had he known the danger in which his sister lay, his heart might have rejected every secondary matter. But the minister did not know that Susan had been sinking into the last apathy whcn this sud- den arrival saved her. He gave Miss Smith the easy-chair by the fire, and listened with an appearance of attention, but ~with little real understanding, to her lengthy and per- plexed story. She was all in a flutter, the good governess said: everything was so mysterious and out of the way, she did not know what to think. Little Alices mamma, Miss Russell that was, Mrs. Mildmay she meant, had brought the child back to her after that dreadful business at Dover. What was the rights of that business, could Mr. Vincent tell her? Colonel Mildmay was getting better, she knew, and it was not a murder; and she was heart-broken when she heard the trouble poor dear Miss Vincent had got into about it. Well, Alices mamma brought back the child, and they started with her at once to France. They went up be- yond Lyons to the hills, an out-of-the-way little place, but Mrs. Mildmay was always so nervous. And then she left us, Mr. Vincent, said the afflicted governess, as the minister, in grievous impatience, kept pacing up and down the room thus occupied and taken possessiun of left u~ without a soul to speak to or a church within reach; and if there is one thing I have more horror of than an6ther for its effect upon the youthful mind, it is Popery, which is so seductive to the imagination. Alice did not take to her mamma, Mr. Vincent. It was natural enough, but it was hard upon Mrs. Mild- may: she never had a good way with chil- dren; and from the moment We started till now, it has been impossible to get your sis- ter out of the childs mind. She took a fancy to her the moment she saw her. Girls of that age, if you will not think it strange of me to say so, very often fall in love with a girl older than themselvesquite fall in love, though it is a strange thing to say. Alice would not rest...she gaveine no peace. I wrote to say so, but I think Mrs. Mildmay could not have got my letter. The child would have run away by herself if I had not brought her. Besides, said Miss Smith, apologetically, the doctors have assured me that, if she ever became much interested in any one, or attached to anybody in par- ticular, she was not to be crossed. It was the best chance for her mind, the doctors said. What could I do? What do you think I could do, Mr. Vincent? I brought her home, for I could not help xnyselfoth- erwise she would have run away. She has a very strong will, though she looks so gen- tle. I hope you will help me to explain the circumstances to Mrs. Mildmay, and how it was I came back without her authority. Dont you think they ought to call in the friends on both sides and come to some ar- rangement, Mr1 Vincent? said the excel- lent woman, anxiously. I know she trusts you very much, and it was she herself who gave me your address. To this speech Vincent listened with an impatience and restlessness which he found it impossible to conceal. He paced about the darker end of his room, on the other side of that table, where the lamp shone vacantly upon his open desk and scattered papers, answering now and then with a mon~ osyllable of reluctant courtesy, irritated and disturbed beyond expression by the perfectly serious and proper figure seated by the fire. Somebody might come from that assembly which had met to discuss him, and he could not be alone to receive them. In the anno~r~~ ance of the moment the minister almost chafed at his sister and her concerns. His life was invaded by these women, with their mysteries and agonies. He listened to the steps outside, thinking every moment to hear the steady tramp of the deputation from S& .. 1cm, or at least Tozer, whom it would have been balm to his mind, in the height of the good mans triumph, to cut short and anni- hilate. But how do that, or anything else, with this woman seated by his fire explain~ ing her unintelligible affairs? Such was Vincents state of mind while his mother, in an agony of joy, was hearing from Susans lips, for the first time, broken explanations of those few days of her life which outbal- anced in terrible importance all its preceding years. The minister did not know that his sisters very existence, as well as her reason., 64 SALEM CHAPEL. hung upon that unhoped-for opening of her childs mother was at Lady Westerns, that mouth and heart. ske was Mrs. Mildmny, and that the Non- Matters were not much mended when Dr. conformist was in her confidence, cheerfully Rider came in, beaming and radiant, full of undertook to carry the governess in his drag congratulations. Susan was saved. It was to Grange Lane, not without hopes of fur- the most curious psychological puzzle, the ther information; and it was now getting doctor said; all her life had got concen- late. Miss Smith made Vincent a tremulous trated into the few days between her depart- courtesy, and held out her hand to him to are from Lonsdale and her arrival at Car- say good-night. The doctor will perhaps lingford. Neither her old existence, nor the explain to Mrs. Mildmay why I have left objects that surrounded her at the moment, little Alice, said the troubled woman. I had any significance for Susan; only some- have never left her before since she was in- thing that belonged to that wonderful inter- trusted to menever but when her papa val in which she had been driven desperate, stole her away; and you are a minister, Mr. could win back consciousness to her mind. Vincentand oh, I hope I am doing quite It was the most singular case he had ever right, and as Alices mamma will approve! met with; but he knew this was the only But if she disapproves I must come back way of treating it, and so it had proved, and He recognized the girl with the blue veil the They must not be disturbed to-night, moment he saw herhe knew it could be no said Dr. Rider, promptly; I will see Mrs. other. Who was she? Where had she Mildmay. lie was not reluctant to see sprung from at that critical moment? where Mrs. Mildmay. The doctor, though he was had she been? what was to be done with not a gossip, was not inaccessihle to the her? Dr. Rider poured forth his questions pleasure of knowing more than anybody else like a stream. He was full of professional of the complications of this strange business, triumph, not to say natural satisfaction. He which still afforded matter of talk to Car- could not understand how his patients lingford. He hurried her away while still brother, at that wonderf~d crisis, could have the good governess was all in a flutter, and a mind pre-occupied or engaged with other for the first time the minister was left alone. things. The doctor turned with lively sym- It was with a troubled mind that the young pathy and curiosity from the anxious Non- man resumed his seat at his desk. lie be- conformist to Miss Smith, who,was but too gan to get utterly weary of this business, willing to begin all her explanations over and all about it. If he could only have swept again. Dr. Rider, accustomed to hear many away in a whirlwind, with his mother and personal narratives, collected this story a sister, where the name of Mildmay had never great deal more clearly than Vincent, who been heard of, and where he could forever was so much more interested in it, had, with get rid of that hauntiug woman with her all his oppoi unities, been able to do. How gleaming eyes, who had pursued even his long the poor minister might have suffered gentle mother to the door! but this new under this conversation, it is impossible to complication seemed to involve him deeper tell. But Mrs. Vincent, in all the agitation than ever in those strange bonds. It was of her daughters deliverance, could not for- with a certain disgust t~iat the minister get the griefs of others. She sent a little thought it all over as he sat leaning his head message to her son, begging that he would on his hands. His way was dark before send word of this arrival to the poor lady. him, yet it must speedily be decided. Every- To let her knowbut she must not come thing was at a crisis in his excited mind here to-night,, was the widows message, and troubled lifeeven that strange, lovely who was just then having the room dark- childs face, which had roused Susan from ened, and everything arranged for the night, her apathy, had its share in the excitement if perhaps her child might sleep. This mes- of her brothers thoughts; for it was but sage delivered the minister; it recalled Miss another version, with differences, of the face Smith to her duty. She it was who must of that other Alice, who all unwittingly had go and explain everything to her patroness. procured for Vincent the sweetest and the Dr. Rider, whose much-excited wonder was hardest hours he had spent in Carlingford. still further stimulated by hearing that the I Were they all to pass like a dreamher THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGL 968. CHRONICLES OF CARLTNGFORD. 66 smiles her sweet looks, her kind words, even Yes, said the minister, who was moving that magical touch upon his arm, which had about his paliers, and did not look up. The once charmed him out of all his troubles? butterman began to be alarmed; he grew A groan came out of the young mans heart, more and more enthusiastic the less responsO not loud, but deep, as that thought moved he met with. him. The very despair of this love-dream Its a meeting as will tell in the conneQ.~ had been more exquisite than any pleasure tion, said Tozer, with unconscious fore of his life. Was it all to pass away and be sight; a candid mind in a congregation no longer? Life and thought, the actual aint so general as you and me would like t& and the visionary, had both come to a cli- see, Mr. Vincent, and it takes a bit of a trial max, and, seemed to stand still, waiting the like this, sir, and opposition, to bring out decision which must be come to that night. the real attachment as is between a pastor From these musings the entrance of Tozer and a flock. roused the minister. The excellent butter- Yes, said Vincent again. The deacon man came in all flushed and glowing from did not know what to make of the minister. his success. To him, the meeting, which Had he been piqued and angry, Tozer thought already the Nonconformist had half lost sight he might have known how to manage him~ of under the superstrucuire of suhsequent but this coldness was an alarming and mys.- events, had newly concluded, and was the terious symptom which he was unequal to. one occurrence of the time. The cheers In his embarrassment and anxiety the good which had hailed him master of the field butterman stumbled upon the very suhject were still ringing in Tozers ears. I dont from which, had he known the true state of deny as I am intoxicated-like, said the cx- affairs, he would have kept aloof. cellent deacon ; them cheers was enough And the meeting as was to be to-mor- to carry any man off his legs, sir, if youll row night? said Tozer; there aint no believe me. Weve scattered the enemy, need for explanations nowa word or two thats what weve been and done, Mr. Yin- out of the pulpit is all as is wanted, just to cent. There aint one of them as will dare say as its all over,, and youre grateful for show face in Salem. We was unanimous, their attachment, and so forth; you kno~v a sir unanimous, thats what we was! I deal better, sir, how to do it nor me. And, never see such a triumph in our connection. about the meeting as was called for to-mor- Hurrah! If it warnt miss as is ill, I could row night Pme and the missis were think- give it you all over again, cheers and all. ing, though its sudden, as it mi0ht he turned I am glad you were pleased, said Yin- into a tea-meeting, if you was agreeable, cent, with an effort; but I will not ask you just to make things pleasant; or if that aint for such a report of the proceedings. according to your fancy, as Im aware youre Pleased! Ill tell you one thing as I not one as likes tea-meetings, we might send was sorry for, sir, said Tozer, somewhat round, Mr. Vincent, to all the seat-holders subdue~1 in his exultation by the pastors to say as its given up; Id do one or the calmness I did it for the best; but see- other, if youd be advised by me. ing as things have turned out so well, I am Thank youbut I cant do either one or as sorry as I can beand that is, that you the other, said the Nonconformist. I wasnt there. It was from expecting some would not have asked the people to meet m& unpleasantness as I asked you not to come; if I had not had something to say to them but things turning out as they did, it would and this nights business, you understand, have doiie your heart good to see em, Mr. said Vincent, with a little pride, has made Vincent. Salem folks has a deal of sense no difference in me. when you put things before them effective. No, sir, no to be sure not, said the And then youd only have had to say three perplexed hutterman, much bewildered; words to them on the spur of the moment, but two meetings on two nights consccu- and all was settled and done with, and every- tive is running the flock hard, it is. Id give thing put straight; which would have let up to-morrow, Mr. Vincent, if I was you. them settle down steady, sir, at once, and To this insinuating address the minister not kept no excitement, as it ~vere, hanging made no answerhe only shook his head. about. Poor Tozer, out of hi~ exultation, fell again SALEM CHAPEL. into the depths. The blow was so unlooked for that it overwhelmed him. Youll not go and make no reflections, sir? said the troubled deacon; bygones is bygones. Youll not bring it up against them, as they didnt show that sympathy they might have done? Youll not make no reference to nobody in particular, Mr. Vin- cent? When a flock is conscious as theyve done their dooty and stood by their pastor, it aint a safe thing, sir, not to turn upon them, and rake up things as is past. If youll take! my advice, sir, as wishes you well, and hasnt no motive but your good, Id not hold that meeting, Mr. Vincent; or, if youre bent upon it, say the word, and well set to work and give em a tea-meeting, and make all things comfortable. But if you was pru- dent, sir, and would go by my advice, one or the other of them two is what I would do. Thank you, Tozer, all the same, said Vincent, who, notwithstanding his pre-occu- pation, saw the good buttermans anxiety, and al)preciated it. I know very well that all that is pleasant to-night is owing to you. Dont suppose I dont understand how youve fought for mc; but now the business is mine, and I can take no more advice. Think no more of it; you have done all that you could do. I have done my humble endeavour, sir, as is my dooty, to keep things straight, said the deacon, doubtfully; and if youd tell what was in your mind, Mr. Vincent But the young Nonconformist gathercd up his papers, closed his desk, and held out his hand to the kind-hearted hutterman. My sister has come back almost from the grave to-ni~ht, said Vincent; and we arc all, for anything I can see, at the turning-point of our lives. You have done all you can do, and I thank you heartily; but now the busi- ness is in my hands. This was all the satisfaction Tozer got from the minister. He ~vent home much discouraged, not knowing what to make of it, but did not confide his fears even to his wife, hoping that reflection ~vould change the pastors mind, and resolved to make another effort to-morrow. And so the night fell over the troubled house. In the sick-room a joyful agitation bad taken the place of the dark and hopeless calm. Susan, roused to life, lay leaning against her mother, looking at the child asleep on the sofa by her, un- conscious of the long and terrible interval between the danger which that child had shared, and the delicious security to which her mind had all at once awakened. To Susans consciousness, it appeared as if her mother had suddenly risen out of the mists, and delivered the two helpless creatures who had suffered together. She could not press close enough to this guardian of her life. She held her arms round her, and laid her cheek against the widows with the depen- dence of a child upon her mothers bosom. Mrs. Vincent sat upon the bed supporting her, herself supported in her weariness by love and joy, two divine attendants who go but seldom together. The two talked in whispers,Susan because of her feebleness, the mother in the instinct of caressing tent derness. The poor girl told her story in broken syllables broken by the widows kisscs and murmurs of sympathy, of xvon- der and love. Healing breathed upon the stricken mind and feeble frame as the two clung together in the silent night, always with an unspoken reference to the beautiful, forlorn creature on the sofa that visible symbol of all the terrors and troubles past. I told her my mother would come to save us, said poor Susan. When she dropped to sleep at last, the mother leant her aching frame upon some pillows, afraid to move, and slept too, supreme protector, in her ten.~ der weakness, of these two young lives. As she woke from time to time to see her child sleeping by her side, thoughts of her sons deliverance stole across Mrs. Vincents mind to sweeten hcr repose. The watch- light burned dimly in the room, and threw a gigantic shadow of her little figure, half erect on the side of the bed, still in her black gown and the close white cap, which could not be less than dainty in its neatness, even in that vigil, upon the further wall. The widow slept only in snatches, waking often and keeping awake, as people do when they grow old; her thoughts, ever alive and active, varying between her proj- ects for the future, to save Susan from all painful knowledge of her own story, and the thankful recollection of Arthurs rescue from his troubles. From echoes of Tozers speech, and of the cheers of the flock, her imagination wandered off into calculations of how she could find another place of hab CHRONICLES OF CARLINOFORD. itation as pleasant, perhaps, as Lonsdale, and even to the details of her removal from thence, what portions of her furniture she would sell, and which take with her. For now that Arthur has got out of his troubles, we must not stay to get him into fresh diffi- culties with his flock, she said to herself, with a momentary ache in her thankful heart; and so dropped asleep for another half-hour, to wake again presently, and enter anew into the whole question. Such was the way in which Mrs. Vincent passed that agitated but joyful night. In the adjoining room Arthur sat up late over his papers. He was not writing, or doing any work; for hours together he sat leaning his head on his hand, gazing intently at the lamp, which his mother had adjusted, until his eyes were dazzled, and the gloom of the room around became spotted with discs of shade. Was he to permit the nat- ural gratification into which Tozers success had reluctantly moved him, to alter his re- solve? Was he to drop into his old harness and try again? or was he to carry out his purpose in the face of all entreaties and in- ducements? The natural inclination to adopt the easiest courseand the equally natural, impetuous, youthful impulse to take the leap to which he had made up his mind, and dash forth in the face of his difficulties ~gave him abundant occupation for his thoughts as they contended against each other. He sat arguing the question within himself long after his fire had sunk into ashes. When the penetrating cold of the night drove him at last to bed, the question was still dubious. Even in his sleep the uneasy perplexity pursued him ;a matter momentous enough, though nobody but Tozerwho was as restless as the minister, and disturbed his wife by groans and mur- murs, of which, when indignantly woke up to render an account, he could give no ex~ planation knew or suspected anything. XVhether to take up his anchors altogether and launch out upon that sea of life, of which, much as he had discussed it in his sermons, the young Nonconformist knew next to nothing. The widow would not have mused so quietly with her wakeful eyes in the dim room next to him, bad she known what discussions were going on in Arthurs mind. As for the congregation of Salem, they slept soundly, with an exhilarating sen- sation of generosity and goodne s,all ex- cept the Pigeons, who were plotting schism, and had already in their eye a vacant Tem- perance Hall, where a new preaching station might be organized under the auspices of somebody who would, rival Vincent. The triumphant majority, however, laughed at the poulterer, and anticipated, with a pleasur- able expectation, the meeting of next night, and the relief and delight of the pastor, who would find he had no explanations to make, but only his thanks to render to his gener- ous flock. The good people concluded that they would all stop to shake hands with him after the business was over. For its as good as receiving of him again, and giv- ing him the right hand of fellowship, said Mrs. Brown at the Dairy, who was entirely won over to the ministers side. Only Tozer, groaning in his midnight visions, and disturbing the virtuous repose of his wedded partner, suspected the new cloud that hung over Salem. For before morning the ministers mind was finally made up. A TtrttwlsH GREAT ExnInaT~oN.ThC ex- ample of the International Exhibition seems not to have been lost on the Porte. A grand show of native produce and industry has been decided on, and will be held in Stamboul durin~ the comm,, Ramazan. To secure the successful realization of this idea, special local delegates are to be at once appointed in all the principal districts of the empire, for the collection and classification of samples. These last will be for- warded to the capital free of all custom or other dues, and at the Government expense. As in London, sales of the articles exhibited will be allowed, and, in the event of their not being so disposed of, the Government will engage to buy all the smaller parcels. Prizes, in money or medals, will also be given to the successful ex- hibitors. Wholly new thou~h this idea is in the history of Turkish industry, and obviously sug. gested also by the London enterprise, if intelli. gently and energetically carried out, it can hardly fail to have the best effect as a stimulant to the agriculturists and manufacturers of the country. The initiative in the matter is, we believe, wholly due to the Grand Yizier.Levaut Herald. 68 JOHN WILSON. 69 From Blackwoods Magazine. day. The veriest tyro in literature has some JOHN WILSON.~ conception, however slight, of the exuberant, THERE are some men who receive their brilliant, irregular, and splendid critic, who fame warm from the hearts of their contem- threw such a fervor of life and spontaneit~ poraries, and some to whom it is tardily into his criticism as to carry that secondary meted out by the hands of posterity, that and subordinate craft into the rank of an slow but certain arbiter of human greatness. art. The very fact of this universal knowl.. It is rarely that the present and the future edge made it harder to write him down in come to an immediate agreement in such calm portraiture, and disentangle his actual cases; and the greatest of reputations gen- figure from the maze of shining mists in erally suffer a momentary eclipse before their which it was wrapt. But the task has been full magnitude is understood and acknowi- tenderly and successfully accomplished in the edged. After the personal fascination dies volumes now before us. Mrs. Gordon seems away, it is time to set forth in veritable lines to have spared no pains to make the story of fact and history the character to which ~ of her fathers life as complete and perfect as are inclined to do but scanty justice, because it was in her power to make it. She has in our sires have glorified it so much; and it vestigated the early years in which his genius is perhaps only after the verdict of his con- dawbed and his troubles began, and has temporaries has been confirmed by their sue- traced with a touch of love, which is better cessors, that any man can be considered to than art, his progress through all the strug have fully achieved his fame. gles and honors of his maturer life. The This final and conclusive decision is now gleam of ejtravagance which, in the popular demanded from us in respect to the remark- imagination, mingled ~vith all the wisdom able man whose name heads this page. atid the wit of the author of the Nodes fades John XVilson received the liberal applauses off from the real man as represented in this of his generation, during his own lifetime, affectionate biography; where his virtuous to an extent rarely equalled. It remains for and honorable domestic life sets the vision- us now to confirm or to cancel that contem- ary dissipations of Ambroses in their true porary fame. What his exact place may light, and helps the reader to reconcile the come to be when this age, like all that have tender poetic musings of the Lights and orbed into its Shadows with the wild force and Bcrser- gone before it, shall have kerrao~e of perfect star, we shall not venture to deter- the great critic. And we can add mine; but we are fully assured that his per- no higher applause of a book which records manent reputation, when he is judged by his the most stirring doings of a time when men were unsci works, will not be less than it was when his . . upulous in speech and dauntless living influence fascinated all around him in invective, and of a writer unsurpassed in It is unnecessary for any one (and above all his powers of slaughter, than to say that no for us) to tell the world who and what he old wounds will sting nor new rancors be was. Perhaps no man of purely literary awakened, by means 6f a memoir so tem- character ever so thoroughly pervaded his perately and judiciously compiled. generation. Sir Walter Scott gave to our John Wilson was born on the 18th May, fathers and the universe the most remarka- 1785, in Paisley, one of the least lovely and ble and brilliant series of works known to least attractive of Scotch towns, yet the modern times; Wordsworth and his brother birthplace of a sufficient number of notable hood gave them a renewed and freshened men to give it a name more enduring than stream of poetry; but Christopher North that conferred by its shawls and muslins. gave them their opinions, breathed the lie was the son of a n~an wealthy but undis- breath of life into their private estimate of tinguishedborn of the fresh soil and vigor- the ~ational literature, and threw the light ous native stock, as men of such exuberant of his genius with a lavish hand upon all life and mighty frame usually are; and had things, worthy and unworthy, of the passing a mother of the ancient Scotch type, hand~ Christopher North A Memoir of John some, witty, and imperative, as became the mother of a man of genius. He was the Wilson, late Professor of Moral Philosophy in the Ijniversitv of Edinburgh. By his I)aughter, Mrs. eldest son, and seems to nave eariy vecome Gordon. Edinburgh: Edmoiiston and Douglas. 1 the hero of the family, his childish adven 70 JOHN WILSON. tures, drolleries, and wisdoms being laid up ration between the childhood so joyously among the traditions of the house. At three spent and the youth so precociously begun. he ran away from his nurses custody to fish In Glasgow he lived with Piofessoi Jardine, with a pin in the nearest burn; at five he the Professor of Logic, where he seems to preached quaint sermons on the duties of have early progressed into society, but where parents to the delighted audience in the lie also appears, through the medium of old nursery ;and while he was still of very memorandum-books, in all the virtue and tender years, was despatched to school at propriety of an exemplary schoolboy, noting the Manse of the Mearns, an adjacent par- down his juvenile expenses and balancing ish, wild, pastoral, moorland, and sylvan, his innocent sixpences with the most lauda- where, amid the best and most genial infiu- ble exactness. Here his country training ences, he entered into all the delights of that and growing strength disclose themselves in rural life which he was afterwards to illus- records of races and pedestrian feats of van- trate with so many noble pictures, and from ous kinds, in boxing matches, and other which he was to draw so much inspiration, such vigorous diversions. He fell in love What he saw and heard among these woods too, as was natural, as he grew older; and and wastes, his snatches of delight and wrote and dedicated a volume of poems in storms of terror, his fights, his frights, his manuscript to the Margaret of his thoughts. weapons, and his playfellowsperhaps the Of the progress of his studies there is no most beautiful picture of a schoolboys ex- great evidence, but a token of budding perience ever attempted in wordsthe reader genius, much more characteristic of his will find recorded in the papers entitled, future career than any number of verses, Christopher in his Sporting Jack~.* Noth- appears in the shape of a letter to Words- ing could be more exquisite than the land- worth, written when the young student was scape and the child, the one completing and but seventeen. It was shortly after the pub- elevating the other, which appear in these lication of the Lyrical Ballads, over which wonderful sketches, where the student of so great a storm arose; and, though full of opinion and public sentiment may trace the enthusiasm for the poet and his work, re- first germ of that enthusiasm for athletic veals the future critic with a most interest- sport and open air which has since become ing and significant distinctness. here the a kind of popular gospel, and which the Scotch lad addresses, like a young monarch, founders of the modern school of Muscular the great singer, whom he feels himself able Christianity claim to have first suggested. to estimate and deliver judgin eat upon. He Mr. Kingsley himself, however, may consent is not abashed as lie enters the poets pres- to yield the palm, at once of landscape- ence, although the name of poet is almost painting and life, to the Paisley boy, just the highest of earthly titles to his youthful escaped from the close enclosure of the little eyes; but he is reverent, modest, serious, town, whose heart is intoxicated with the as becomes one who is profoundly aware of very air, and whose long-hoarded recollec- the greatness he approaches, and aware also tions rise up with all the radiance of first of his own birthright, which makes his ap- love, illuminating every tuft of heather on proach natural. Fervent as the praise is, it the moor and every stretch of country in the is not in the mock-heroical strain of ordinary sunshine. Many a deluding line of imag- enthusiasm, nor is the young critic afraid to mary autobiography came from The same deliver his full opinion. It is thus that he hand to mystify the public; but there is no addresses, with youthful composure, the mystification possible about the records of poet over whom all the reviewers of the day that brightest childhood, in which everything were fighting, and who aimed at nothing less is so fresh, so ne~v, so lavish in light and than establishing a new poetical creed in the color and happiness, agitated world Vivid, however, as these impressions are he was only twelve when, with the usual But, sir, in my opinion, he says, after transition of Scotch training, he various commendations of the loftiest de premature scription, the manner in which you have was transferred to Glasgow Collegethe executed this plan (of the Idiot Boy) has death of his father forming a point of sepa- frustrated the end you intended to produce ~ Recreations of Christopher 1~iorth. by it; the affection of Betty Foy has noth JOHN WILSON. ing in it to excite interest. The excessive over him in money matters, or any other. fondness of the mother disgusts us and pre- At eighteen, having finished his education vents us from sympathizing with her. at G1as~ow, he went to Oxford, and entered This much I know, that among all the peo at M agd alen College as a gentleman-corn- pie ever I knew to have read the poem, moner in 1803. Unlike the ordinary typo never met one who did not rise rather ~ of Scotch scholars, bent upon struggling, if pleased from the I)erusal of it; and the o y cause I could assign for it was the one now possible, to the head of the prize-list in toil mentioned. This inability to receive I)leas- and self-denial, he began his career in Ox- ure from descriptions such as that of the ford with full time and means to perfect his Idiot Boy is, I am convinced, founded education as he pleased, without any ghost upon established feelings of human nature, of a l)rofession hanging over his head, and and the rinci le of it constitutes as I dare . . p p say you recollect, the leading feature of with qualities, both of body and mmdnnd Smiths Theory of Moral Sentiments. I of body not less than mindexactly such as therefore think that in the choice of this were most likely to win applause and a tri- subject you have committed an error. You umphant reception on the banks of the Isis. never deviate from nature; in you that Very soon thereafter Wilson of Maudlin was would be impossible; but in this case you known not only to tutors and proctors, but have delineated feelings which, though n~it- in various other less reputable circles. The ural, do not please, hut which create an an tense degree of disgust and contempt. With young Scotebman conducted himself at the regard to the manner in which you have cx- University very much as a Mu cular Chris- ecuted your plan, I think too great praise tion of a high development would be made cannot be bestowed on your talents. You to do at the present day in the pages of a have most admirably delineated the idiotism manly novel. The dauntless lad held the of the boys miiid, and the situations in crown of the causeway against all comers. which you place him are perfectly calculated He was either Wilson or the devil, that to display it. The various thoughts that oft used alternative, to the amazed pugilist pass through the mothers mind are highly - descriptive of her foolish fondness, her ex- who found more than his match under the travagant fears, and her ardent hopes. The tufted cap which he scorned. That tuft was manner in which you show how bodily shifer- conspicuous in all the frolics of the time. ings are frequently removed by mental auxie- From the convivialities of the colle~e rooms, ties or pleasures, in the description of the ease where his wit, his eloquence, his learning, of Betty Foys female friend, is excessively and his imperturbable good-humor, are chron- well managed, and serves to establish a very icled b curious and important truth. In short, every- y his ancient companions, to the less thing you proposed to execute has been cx- digiifled supper-tables of the Angel, ecuted in a most masterly manner. . . . In I through all which dissipations has strong reading the Idiot Boy, all I)C~5OO5 who al- head and magnificent healthfulness carried low themselves to think must admire your him unharmed,he was the leader and in- talents, but they regret that they have been spiring influence. He was the best far ~o employed, and while they esteem the au- leaper of his day in England, as he himself thor, they cannot help being displeased by tells us in an after account of one of his great his performance. achievements, and was equally distinguished It is pleasant to find that Wordsworth an- for his pedestrian powers. With all this he swered this letter fully and in detail, not seems to have blended an amount of work scrupling to defend himself from the strict- which carried him brilliantly through his ex- ures of the young critic, who thus, by a pre- aminations. But this triumphant career was vision of his natural craft, took up prophet- not without its troubles. Things were not ically, for a moment, the mace of literai~y going prosperously with the love, of which judgment. But no thoughts of work or~ his biographer has made rather more than needful exertion overshadowed the bright seems necessary, by way of giving interest future of the lad, who thus paused, amid all to the scant records of those early years. his enjoyments, his leaps, his wrestlings, and Various shadows had risen between the by- his love-makings, to let loose his young ers, and everything was going wrong as the opinion. lIe was heir to an unencumbered young man approached the crisis of his uni- fortune of 50,000; and had, it is appar- versity life. Letters of exuberant youthful ent, no very stringeat restraint exercised despair, from those rooms in Maudlin which. 72 must have echoed with so many bursts of mirth, carried thrills of youthful sympathy to his fellow-students of Glasgow, to whom he unfolded the unsmoothness of his course of true love. In such a state of despond- ency, indeed, was he, we are told, that he walked from his college to the schools on the morning of his examination in the full con- viction that he was to be plucked. The terror of this examination, writes one of those ministering brethren who had gone to be with him at that grand crisis, preyed so on his mind, that for ten days before I saw him, he had scarcely slept any night more than an hour or two. The examination turned out, however, as might naturally be expected, says the same admiring spectator, the most illustrious within the memory of man. Sotheby was there, and declared it was worth coming from London to hear him translate a Greek chorus. I was exceedingly pleased with Shepherd, his examiner, who seemed highly delighted at having got hold of him, and took much pains to show him off. . . . The mere riddance of that burden which had sat so long on his thoughts was enough to make him dance; hut he was also elated with success and applause, and was in very high spirits after it. Thus the young man, who did not know what moderation meant, veered from utter despondency to the heights of triumph, and putting, as was natural, the darker emotions of his superlative youthfulness on record, has left materials out of which the somewhat embarrassing and indistinct story of prodig- ious love and incalculable despair, on which Mrs. Gordon lingers with evident pleasure, has been compiled. It could not, however, be a very killing passion which left him free to embellish his life with so many recreations. What ~vith his work, his amusements, and his dissipations, it is safe to believe that the despair of the young hero was more extrav- agant in words than in realityespecially as there seems no real reason why he might not have had his way had his heart been much set upon it. The entire story, indeed, is so perfectly inconclusive, and without apparent influence upon his life, that it is difficult to account for its introduction at all. Youthful affairs of the heart which come to nothing, are not so uncommon in the experience of ordinary men as to call for mysterious and solemn mention in the life of a man of gen JOHN WILSOIN. ius; and, probably, the best of us have quite as much to answer for in this respect as Wil- son, who must have been blameless indeed had but this one episode of sentiment inter. posed between his boyhood and his marriage. The little romance, however it ended, had come to a conclusion apparently about the time he left Oxford. He was now twenty- two, master of himself and his fortune, evi- dently freed from all control of guardians, and taking the full benefit of his freedom. When he left the university, he carried his fresh laurels, not to his native country, but to the Lakes, where, doubtless, he was led by a mingling of many motivesthe attrae- tions of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Win- dermere finding efficient seconds in the ath- letic qualities and customs of the stout Dales men, and the fishing and boats of the lakes. There he bought a cottage on the banks of Windermere, and established himself as a resident at Elleray in a manner most char- acteristic, but stran~e enough for so young and adventurous a soul. At the present day such a man would rush abroad to kill lions in Africa, or explore unknown continents; or, at least, if he chose the poetic side, of life, would find a cot at Posilippo instead of Windermere. But the Continent was closed to pilgrims in those stormy days, and the deserts hadnot yet come into fashion. The young master of Elleray was of a nature so varied and full that we feel tempted to de- scribe him not as one but two men. On one side a poet full of the most delicate senti- ment, almost too much etherealized to re- tain the necessary hold upon flesh and blood a dreamer, a visionary, prone to cast the doubtful lights of a fanciful over-refinement upon everything he saw; on the other, ~ stormy, tempestuous, rejoicing, all-real man, ready to follow the frolic of the moment wher- ever it might lead himfull of passion, en. thusiasm, wild liberality, and license, and much of the despotism natural to so in- tense a force of life and physical power. Thus he came to Elleray, of all the notable men in these parts one of the most notable, and subsided, to all appearance quietly, in all his mingled maze of thought and action, tender yet violent, visionary yet practi- cal, into the embowered cottage on its tran- quil hillside looking over Windermere. Here altogether he lived for about eight years, during which time he matured int9 full manhood, married, and made his first publication. This life at Elleray seems the summer of his existence. He was the arbiter of half the wrestling matches in the Dales, the prize-bestower, and, if not a competitor for the same, at least an amateur artist well known and dread~d. He was the most dar- ing and devoted of lake-sailors, maintaining a little fleet on Windermere, sometimes strik- ing forth on a December night upon the stormy water, to lose himself in the storm and fog amid cold so intense that icicles a finger-length hung from his hair and beard. Sports of a still ruder and less excusable description come in to fill up the picture. Nothing, in short, seems to have come amiss to the exuberant life which had so much en- ergy to spare; and when the abounding day and all its occupations were over, the singu- lar duality of the man, who in the sunshine was so riotous and overflowing in action, sent him forth to muse by night in solitary walks, to commune with the hills and stars, and to pour forth his soul in verse, not with- out a certain gentle beauty, but a thousand times less forcible and individual than the man. At Elleray, with his singular group of neighbors, Wordsworth at Hydal, Southey and Coleridge at Keswick, Charles Lloyd at Brathay, Bishop Watson at Cal- garth,and with so continuous and persist- ent a manufacture of poetry going on all around, it was impossible that any young man with the Oxford bays still fresh on his brow could resist the temptation of verse- making. The society of poets, no doubt, is a very fine thing and a great privilege, hut an alarmed and awe-stricken spectator at this distance may be pardoned for looking back with some horror upon that constant interchange of poetries, which made it un- safe to enter any adjacent house without the chance of having a sonnet levelled at your unsuspecting head, or a volley of blank verse poured down upon you from these ever- charged and double-loaded guns. The Friend was going on at that timeColeridge living at WordsworthsWordsworth mak- ing, and reading to us as he made them, the Sonnets to the Tyrolese. Neither Wil- son nor any man could resist the infection. In a society where every man was a poet, it was inevitable that the first essay of the un- developed but conscious genius among them should be in the same direction; and, ac 73 cordingly, a new voice broke the silence of the hills, and another candidate of the Lake School appeared before the public. The Isle of Palms came forth from the seclusion of the cottage at Elleray while the young writer was still a bridegroom in the first year of his marriagean adventure put forth with high hopes and with all the self-confidence natural to a follower of Wordsworthyet still the work of an amateur, happily quite independent of its success or failure. Liter- ature at that time was nothing but the high- est and noblest of arts to the happy posses- sor of Elleray, who, with all his energy and love of sport, does not seem ever to have ex- ceeded the prudent bounds of expenditure. He was independent of everything but that desire of fame which is the prevailing infirm- ity of noble minds, and, doubtless, appre- hended nothing but a higher climax of the happiness he already possessed when he put forth his first literary venture, and gave his name and his productions to the criticism of the public. The public was not unfavorable to the fortunate author, who entered with the fresh eagerness and zest natural to him into this new occupation, impressing his pub- lisher ~vith the necessity of advertising the book, and making all the impatient sugges- tions of a novice, in order to hasten and se- cure its success. The success was suffl- ciently encouraging to prompt him to future exertions; and this new beginning inspired him, apparently still further, with intentions of activity, as he is said to have come to the resolution of joining the Scottish bar; but he was still at Elleray when misfo~tune first fell upon his prosperous life. Up to this time all had gone well with Wilson. He seemed to have an intense enjoyment of life, says De Quincey, in a description of him at this period. Indeed, being young, rich, healthy, and full of intel- lectual activity, it could not be very ~vonder- ful that he should feel happy and pleased with himself and others. He was a fine, gay, grit-hearted fellow, says a humhler critic, as strong as a lion, and as lish as a trout, and he had sic antics as ~nivver man had. The rural life he was leading, full of jovial adventure, sport, and exercise on oae hand, and the loftiest of poetic communings on the other, was the life of his choice, and gave full scope to all his powers; and he was now married, with the happiness and JOHN WILSON. 74 JOHN WILSON. comfort of wife and children ,dependent on palatable to the pride of a wan who has his own. In such circumstances, all at once, spent the first thirty years of his life in happy without any apparent premonition, ruin fell independence. But the valiant soul says not upon this unsuspicious prosperity. The bulk a word. lie accepts his lot with a cheerful of his fortune had been left in a commercial steadfastness, which might seem almost impi- undertaking, and by some sudden failure or ous to any one bent on improving the occasion~ wisfortune of the person to whom it was in- Rich in life and love and genius, the incred- trusted, the household of Elleray was thrown ible young man raises no wail over the de- at a stroke from wealth to comparative pov- parture of his wealth. That happiness is erty. The blow was overwhelming; and no- lost, but not all happiness, or the besthe body could have wondered had a nature so does not even lay up a grudge in his heart, joyous, undisciplined, and self-willedup to to be disclosed when he finds utterance. this time a spoilt child of fortunegiven way Next time we hear of him, his life is ~ll under it. Such a test few of us, however changed from that of Elleray. No longer self-controlled and under rule, could sustain, the head and master of his own house, he is But the touch of trial, so sharp and sudden, now under his mothers roof, and compara- developed at once, in the brave and stout- tively in a secondary position. lie has no hearted young man, a strain of profound longer his fleet of boats, his mountains and courage and cheerfulness not often to be meres over which to expatiate in glory and found anywhere, and most rare in conjunc- in joy, but only the Parliament house, where tion with a temper so fiery and sunny. He a rare brief, when he gets one, embarrasses seems to have received the blow in absolute him beyond everything ;all the circum- silence, without a word of complaint or re- stances of life, it is but too evident, have piningto have accepted and made the best changed; but no change is apparent in the of it at once, as he had hitherto with thank- gallant young man, who confronts his troubles fulness accepted all his good things. No and losses with a smile, and is not afraid to cry breaks from him, even in verse, over the be happy even in the face of poverty. It unexpected overthro~vhis astonishment, his was but a quiescent and unproductive pe- dismay, his pangs of injury and downfall, if nod, in which he did nothing, notwithstand- he felt them, never came to any record. He ing necessity, but there is no more admirable was then about thirtyat an age and in cir- chapter in his life. cumstances when it is specially hard to accept In the summer after this downfall, he and humiliation and relinquish pleasure; and it his wife took a pedestrian tour together is with amazement, as well as admiration, through the Highlandsan idyllic journey, that we look on and see how this demonstra- wandering by the loebs and hills according tive, outspoken, immoderate soul, all flushed to the caprice of the day, resting in High- and radiant with happiness, and unprepared laud cottagesa romantic progress which for evil, accepts and endures, with an unex- amazed the Edinburgh world. The brief- pected nobleness, the novel touch of calamity. less young barrister came back in the It is the first grand pointperhaps, through- highest health and spirits; and, still idle out all its varied chapters, the grandest point and happy, though no longer rich, continued in the life of Wilson. He does not even to wander and devise wanderings to his seem to be aware of his own magnanimity, hearts content. Already he had formed or to see any need for forgiving Providence friendships with some men whose names and mankind in general for the wrong in- throw a shadow of coming events upon his flicted upon him. Not a word comes from careless and joyful path. John Gibson his manful lipshe takes his young wife and Lockhart had entered the bar shortly after his children from the dear Elleray to Edin- him, and was sometimes his companion in bugh, to his mothers house, which, doubt- those merry but aimless promenades in the less, was very different from that beloved Parliament house; and Hogg, whom he cottage. It is ended and done with forever, had evidently already begun to quiz and that bright and glorious summer life. hence- play with,begging him, for example, to forward work has to be looked for, has to he recommend to Murray the City of the attained, not~vithoutattendantcireumstanCCs, Plague, a bold eulogy of which from certificates and recommendations, not very the Shepherd would, as the laughing letter- 75 writer solemnly pretends, be of service to venerated and beloved MAGA were never me,was now among his correspondents. Shortly afterwards he published another volume of poems, which seem, like the first, to have been moderately successful, and which were reviewed favorably by JefiThy in the Edinburgh Review. Thus the years ran on, spent, it is evident, as much as pos- sible, in truant adventures by flood and fell, fishing excursions, productive of much pleasure and destructive of hosts of trout, but totally without any balance of work to justify the wandering. Letters from Loch Awe, from the dear cottage of Elleray, from every Highland village he passes oa his way, convey the tenderest love and the most careful domestic injunctions to his young wife, who doubtless, with her chil- drea in her lap, could not always accompany the erratic progresses of her mate, to whom the streams and lochs were clearly much more congenial than the Parliament House, time and the hour having not yet unfolded the vocation which awaited that dauntless and joyous spirit. But in the beginning of the year 1817 occurred a memorable event, which is not to be spoken of in these pages without respect and a certain degree of solemnity. In the noble Princes Street of Edinburgh, the main artery of the town, Mr. William Blackwood, the originator of this magazine, a man of rare administrative power and sound judgment, clear-sighted and prescient of the necessities of the time, had estab- lished himself as a publisher. The Edin- burgh Review was then in all its early force, undiminished by time, a triumphant periodi- cal, the beginning of a new era: and the Quarterly had also come into existence, a less forcible, but sufficiently promising op- ponent. Thoughts of a publication akin, yet different, were slowly forming in the mind of our publisher, when he concluded an agreement with two literary gentlemen of moderate contemporary fame, to begin a magazine, of which they should be the joint editors. The experiment was begun in March, 1817, and the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, mildly literary, gently local, ami- ably free of all personality, entered, like a lamb, the field in which it was shortly to ap- pear as a lion. Sad though it is to confess as much, anything more utterly tame and respectable than the first six numbers of our put in print. One of the editors was Thomas Pringle, African Pringle, a name not unknown to fame; the other a Mr. Cleghorn, of whom we know nothing. These excellent men pottered through their six months issue, doubtless much to the impatience of the practical and sagacious intelligence, which saw further than they did, and perceived what might be made of this undeveloped organ which the editors called our humble miscellany. Mr. Blackwood himself was young, strongly political, and as ready to defy the world and set everybody right, as were the unem- ployed young wits of the Parliament House, now idling the summer days at Loch Awe, or yawning in Edinburgh over briefs which they could not tell what the devil they were to do with. The publisher chafed in his office over the dulness of the new pen. odical, the capabilities of which were so manifest to his mind, but did not scorn to get his hand into practice, and master the details of the new undertaking, to which, in the dearth of other modes of communication between writers and readers, various valua- ble Contributors, not unremarked by the wise and clear eyes which bided their time behind, began gradually to drop in. Of these Hogg was one of. the first; and the brilliant young advocate, already well known to Edinburgh society, the author of the isle of Palms, the Highland tourist, angler, sportsman, and generally incomprehensible personage, had also made a mild approach to the veiled prophetess, in papers and poems bearing the signature of Eremus. Such was the state of affairs until six months had elapsed from the first founding of the new periodical. By that time, happily, the editors and publisher had become mutually disgusted with each other. With a quaint ebullition of literary jealousy, which is amus- ing enough when we consider the after his- tory of this magazine, they formally wrote to Mr. Blackwood, letting him know that his interference with their editorial func- tions could no longer be endured. The consequence was, that the two worthy litter- ateurs were bought off, and relieved of those functions, in which the clear eye of the pub- lisher perceived by intuition a fit field for his own energies; and that in October, 1817, MAGA made a new beginning, dashing JOHN WILSON. 70 wildly, with shouts of savage glee and frolic, into the astonished world of literature, and celebrating her own new birth and freedom in a furious Bacchic dance of headstrong youthfulness. After the calm respectability of her previous appearance, it is not aston- ishing that the public should behold, ~vith amaze, consternation, and excitement, the sudden bound upon .the stage of this wild and fearless champion. No thought of the consequences troubled the minds of the young writers, all delighted to get utterance for themselves, and a mode in which to de- liver their dauntless assault upon the world in general; nor of the young publisher, who stood responsible for any mischief, but who had his full share of the ardor and pug- nacity which distinguished the band. They seem to have leaped together by instinct in the immense crisis; and certainly it would be difficult to find any two parties who had more need of each other than had the young, ambitious, enterprising, and practical ad- ministrator of literary affairs in Princes Street, who was not himself, in the first instance, an author, though his judgment in literary matters was notably swift, clear, and almost unerring; and the little party of wits then afloat and aimless upon Edin- burgh society, who abounded in the neces- sary power of utterance, but were wasting themselves in Parliament-House jokes and convivial meetings, unaware what use to make of their talents. Great was the fer-, vor of the onslaught with which, when called together suddenly to support the falling banner, the young men rushed into the breach, and throwing prudence to the winds, charged forth in a wild sally upon the spectators, who, doubtless, had come to assist at the burial of the feeble periodical, whose recognized conductors had forsaken it. The sally was wild, furious, and sudden, almost beyond precedent, but it was irre- sistible. The banner that had been droop- ing was set up again with shouts, and the public became aware of a new, individual, and remarkable organ of opinion, about the sayings and sentiments of which it was im- possible to be indifferent. The whole his- tory of this singular literary phenomenon is interesting. The best account of it, perhaps, is to be gathered from the famous Chaldee Manuscript, which appeared in the first num- ber under the new management, and which JOHN WILSON. set Edinburgh at once by the ears. Through the dim and much-evaporated fun of this notable fable we discern darkly the publisher left with his magazine, courageous but de- serted, aiming to make of it a rival to the great neighboring review, which was thea triumphant in the world of literature, but provided as yet with no material for his purpose save his own indomitable determi- nation. Then, through the mist of unknown names and persons whom he calls to his aid, appears the Leopard from the valley of the palm-trees, whose going forth was comely as the greyhound, and his eyes like the lightning of fiery flame, and the Scor- pion which delighteth to sting the faces of men emblematical portraits, each drawn, no doubt, by the hand of the other, of the two brilliant young intelligences, Wilson and Lockhart, to whom the call of the for- lorn and daring editor opened up a new world. Both of the young men seem to have started to the summons with a per- ception, if not that their own future lay in it, yet of its wonderful capabilities, and the matchless frolic and delight of such an un- dertaking. They met together in joyous conclave when the first sound of the call to arms came to their ears; and, assembled in a room in Queen Street in the house of Wilsons mother, read over the first part of this Chaldee 1lIanuscr~pt, which had been writtcn by Hogg, ~nd composed the remain- der of the same in intermittent bursts of fun and laughter. The ladies in the drawing- room above, Mrs. Gordon tells us, hearing the echoes of merriment below, sent to in- quire into the joke, doubtless without getting much satisfaction. So thoroughly did the young writers enjoy their own wit, thatthe same authority informs us Sir William Hamilton, the future philosopher, who had the privilege of adding a strophe to this joyous performance, was so amused that he fell from his chair in a fit of laughter. The fun which was to convulse Edinburgh% con- vulsed with mirth, in the first l)lace, its own perpetrators, who bore no man any malice, but were bent, with the natural instinct of youthful wits, upon a universal skrimmage with the world. Thus inspired, they rushed to the resetle. Number VII. of the Edin~ burgh Monthly Magazine blazed upon the firmament as that of BLAcKwOOD; and startled Edinburgh fell into such a buzz of JOHN WILSON. mingled rage, laughter, and interest, that the languid publication was quickened into immediate vigor, and the new era began. It was thus that Wilson discovered his true vocation in literature, and. indeed in the worm. He had amused himself up to this period to the top of his bent, and played out his holiday in wealth and poverty with the heartiest enjoyment of the same; but he had not yet found out what he was good for, or how b.e was to provide for his family and the necessities of life. Doubtless no such idea was in his mind when he rushed into the service of the new periodical. Its pay at first was doubtful, its very existence precariousnobody knew what was to come of it. Instead of being the prop and pillar of his future life, and the means of his fame, the young poet of the Isle of Palms entered upon it in the spirit of a frolic, for present enjoyment more than eventual profit. It is easy enough to conceive how charming to the imagination of the two young, briefless barristers must have been this medium of revenging with lightning touches of ridicule and laughter their youthful wrongs upon the careless and indifferent world. But the new Blackwood was built on profounder pur- poses; and if the young writers were pres- cient at first of little but fun, a more serious hope moved their director, who stood behind in the quietness of his non-literary hut gov- erning character a man who had in the mean time to bear all the brunt without the sweetness of the fame, and, steadfast in his own project, to go through the ordeal of all sorts of thr~ats, with an energy and resolu- tion of which none of his collaborateurs, however gifted, could have been capable. It was all sport to the gay young genius, who did not fear what he said, secure under the shadow of that man in plain apparel, whose name was as it had been the color of ebony, and who betrayed no secrets, nor ever dreamt of shifting the responsibility from his own shoulders and purse to those of the real cul- prit; but it was a more serious matter for the responsible person himself, who had not only to supply all the necessary means for the campaign, but to keep in due order and restraint the fiery Pegasus which he had yoked into his war-chariot, taking heed, with wise discretion, that its extravagance and high blood went only so far as was nec- essary to give the required impetus, and not 77 far enough to dash both vehicle and riders into swift destruction. Nowhere more fitly than in discussing the character and history of John Wilson in the pages of this maga- zitie, which William Blackwood founded and wisely guided to the end of his career, could the tribute of justice be paid to the mem- ory of that able and remarkable man. It was he who saw over the heads of his more brilliant associates, and, through all the commotion of their wit, philosophy, and fun, the serious capabilities of a great permanent organ of literary and political opinion such as this which he aimed at establishing: it was he who, through all the caprices of wit and inconstancies of genius, tried by many a harassment and vexation, worried by irregu- lar exertions and intermittent support even on the part of men to whom the public gave much of his share of the praise, still held steadily onhad patience, and waited for the results on which he had calculated. The threats of prosecution and remonstrances of those who thought themselves aggrieved, were a small matter in comparison with the perpetual care and oversight demanded by the ever-recurring monthly publication, which had to be kept up and kept equal at all hazardsa doubly difficult task when the contributors were so few in number, and so utterly daring in style. Mr. Blackwood had the wisdom to see how far it was safe to go in that dashing career, and the weight of character and skill of management which enabled him to tighten his reins and draw up his panting steeds when that delicate point had been reached. The brilliant ge- nius of XVilsoa would doubtless have found some expression for itself, some time or other in his life, more characteristic than volumes of verse, even if it had never attained the medium of the ma~azinethough nowhere else could it have gained such free, full, and congenial utterance. But it was not to his splendid and impatient hands that Maga owed either her origin or her steady prog- ress. Among many mystifications, the fa- vorite idea of a veiled editormysterious, unaccountable personagepleased the fancy of the public, and perhaps soothed the ruf- fled feelings now and then of a snan of let- ters, slow to yield to the sceptre of a mere layman and unprofessional person, however potential or wise were the hands that swayed it. But Christopher North himself did not JOHN WILSON. fail to acknowledge the necessity of this re- straint exercised by the real manager of af- fairs an admission which we have some pride in making, as a proof that the chil- dren of Apollo have still discrimination enough to recognize the administrative and governing faculty wherever it appears, and as ourselves subject, within the bounds of reasonable loyalty, to a similar sway. It was thus that Biackwoods Magazine, of the influence and importance of which from that time to this it does not become us to speak, began its career; and thus, also, the youthful life of John Wilson, so long a merely ornamental romance and sport of ex- istence, quickened into use and service. In a moment, with the rapidity of magic, the idle young advocates, who had been used to lounge out their days together without much notice from the world, found themselves in the novel and deli~htful position of success- ful revolutionists who had shaken that same world to its very foundations. Whiggism, which had been paramount in Edinburgh under the autocratic influence of the Edin- burgh Review sustained a shock which was all the more severe because unexpected, the palm of literary pre-eminence having hith- erto, without any controversy, been left in the hands of Jeffrey and his brethren. It is said that, after the publication of that as- tounding No. VII., which is forever immor- tal in our records, the streets of Edinburgh bore lively impress of the fray, and that an intelligent observer might have read in the countenances of the passengers the individ- ual politics of eachdismay and vexation being written on all Whiggish features, while an unusual gleam of satisfaction beamed from the visages of the faithful. The young publication went on dauntlessly after this brilliant beginning. There was hardly a number for many months which did not contain an attack upon somebody, says Irs. Gordon, with not uncomplacent candor; yet the abuse was but the seasoning which gave piquancy to the more serious mass of brilliant criticism and lively com- mentary upon books and things. In this early and prehistoric age of Maga, it is dif- ficult to distinguish among the mists the two figures which flit around her cradle, or to identify their distinct productions, united as they both were, not only in labor, but in those wild, almost boyish, pranks of mysti fication with which they were intent upon bewildering the public, and making their own work feel as much like play as possible. Sometimes it is Wilson, sometimes it is Lockhart, who gleams across the darkened stage in half-recognizable personality; but anon we are lost in a host of imaginary con- tributorsGerman doctors and barons, Irish soldiers, English scholars, every kind of dis- guise which could be lightly glided off and on by the joyous masquers who took so thorough a delight in their work. Nor were those mischievous plotters content with rais- ing up fictitious personages upon whom to lay the burden of their own exuberant tide of composition. A still more wicked ~vile remained. They signed respectable names of dull but well-known men to their own wild effusions, and conferred a sudden literary reputation upon worthy persons in Glasgow and elsewhere, to whom a pen was an incom- prehensible weapon. Never was work treat- ing of serious matters, and founded on sub- stantial ground of payment and reward, conducted so much like a frolic; and the principal actors in this strange maze of wit and confusion found, as their work pro- ceeded, a new interest and zest in life. The history of John XVilson had now reached to that moment of tide in the affairs of men ~ which was decisive of his entire life. The gay marauder on Highland stream and Vv~estmorelaad hillside, had at last, like others, settled to that inevitable toil which is the lot of most men, but which he had hitherto eluded with wonderful in- genuity.. The brilliant apprenticeship of the magazine, bringing its immediate reward, as l)eriodical writing ha~ the advantage of a doing, was as easy and pleasant an entrance into the active labors of life as any man could desire; and, full as it was of exciting and exhilarating circumstances, wooed the young advocate by degrees into habits of work, and that consciousness of the necessi- ties of ordinary existence which hitherto does not seem to have moved him very deeply. Two years have not elapsed before we find him making a distinct independent move- ment into his own house, and crectin, a0ain the household gods which, since the days of Elleray, had sunk into secondary deities in his mothers overflowing household. This new beginning was made in Anne Street, ~ quiet little suburban street, where, as Mrs. 78 ~79 JOHN WILSON. Gordon informs us, her father round a ated. Difficult enough, however, a it might ])leasant little community that made resi- have been under any circumstances for these dence there far from distasteful. The fain- excellent functionaries to decide between ily had increased and multiplied, and there the rival claims of two candidates so dis were now five children to fill the little house. tinguished, yet so different, the prevailing In the poets ledger, where he put down spirit of the time at once complicated and stray verses and all kinds of literary mem- simplified the conflict, by importing into this, oranda, there is a page taken up with an as into every other question, the ceaseless estimate of the cost of furniture for dining- clamor of politics. Hamilton was a Whig, room, sitting-room, nursery, servants room, Wilson a Tory of the Tories, a fore-rank and kitchen; making up a total of 195, man in his party, and of no unknown might with the triumphant query at the end, in a in the din of battle. All the ancient strength bold hand, Could it be less? Thus once of the Whiggish capital gathered to the more established under his own roof, with combat, while on the other side Mr. Wil- due occupation for his talents and an agree- son was assured of all the support that Goy- able society round him, Wilson seems to eminent could give, and had at his back have composed his life into habits of a more all the forces of his political allies. To the domestic and less roving kind. He no longer present generation, which knows the author wanders abroad in search of adventure over of the Isle of Palms chiefly under his flood and fell, but is visible for a year or two long-established title as Professor Wilson, in his own place, finding apparently excite- it is strange to look back upon that furious meat enough in the warfare and knight- contest, and see how the shafts hurtle errantry of his new profession. He never through the darkening atmosphere, and how appears to have entertained any real inten- the dust of the battle eddies about that tion of seeking his fortune at the bar; but peaceable Philosophy Chair, in which, when having lightly fallen upon a trade, like a we first learned to know his name, he had child of fortune as he was, which lured him been seated, as one could have iina0ined, for on, by mingled pleasure and praise, into a lifetime. No election for a borough was paths of severer duty and harder labor, soon ever more furiously contested, nor popular came to think of a more steady and l)emma- parliamentary candidate assailed more lust- nent occupation, when the chance of such ily. His testimonials and recommendations opened before him. This was in the begin- might indeed be all that could be desired, fling of 1820, rather more than two years and nobody might be able to deny his gen- after his triumphant entry into literature, ius; but more important matters lay behind, when the Chair of Moral Philosophy became and the liberal and enlightened Whig party vacant in the University of Edinburgh. of 1820 could be puritanic when that served Though his reputation hitherto had been their purpose, and were not slow of retaliat- that of a 1)mafessor of the lighter arts of in0 upon the critic, who had not certainly poetry and criticism, the attractions of divine spared them. Such a blessed opportunity philosophy seem nl~vays to have exercised a of administering the Tu quo que was not to great power over Wilson, and he lost no be lost. The supporters of his rivalwhose time in announcing himself as a candidate private friendship with Wilson was undis- for this chair. 1-us principal opponent was turbed, it is pleasant to know, by all this Sir William Hamilton, one of his own inti- hubbubthrew back in the teeth of the cen- mate fricads and close associates, and upon sor of Blaclcwood the dire accusation of in- the surface a more likely pretender to such fidel and libertine. Judging by the recmiin- an office than the brilliant writer whose oc- inations of the period, one is driven to cupations had been so discursive and varied, believe that the highest ambition of a good and whose claims upon that very society in political partisan in those days must have Edinburgh, which he had now to canvass for been to prove, not his adversarys position its favor and patronage, were those of a false, but his adversarys character vile, and satirist and reviewer, rather than of a phi- his life a heap of depravity. Though noth- losopher. The appointment was in the hands ing was to be said against the unquestiona of the Town Council, and its members had ble powers of the young philosopher, an to be individually approached and concili- effective diversion was yet possible in t~ 80 JOHIN wTLsor~. shape of an assault on his morality. The con Patetson raised a protest against it at Scotsman, then, as now, one of the the next meeting of the Town Council, ablest and most influential of Scotch news- where he is said to have made his appear- papers, made a solemn and affecting appeal ance with a bag full of clvrges, but was to its dear bailies in a voice which trembled summarily put down by the assembled dig- with the conscious pathos of its own fine nitaries, who had elected the Tory candi- adjurations. We call upon those mem- date by a majority of twelve votes. An- bers of Council who are fathers of families; other still more shabby and paltry attempt who respect the oaths they have taken; who to disturb the new professor followed, when have some regard for religion, morals, and he delivered his first lecture. There was decency, says this high-toned and virtuous a furious bitterness of feeling against him, journal; we put it to them how they can says an eye-witness, quoted by Mrs. Gor- justify it to their conscience, their country, don, among the classes, of which proba- and their God, to select hini as the man to bly most of his pupils would consist; and fill the Chair of Moral Philosophy, and to although I had no prospect of being among confide to him the taste, the morals, and the them, I went to his first lecture, prepared to characters of the rising generation. Such join in a cabal which, I understood, was an appeal could not be without a certain formed to put him down. The lecture- effect upon the tremulous municipal mind room was crowded to the ceiling. The pro- and the result in the first place was, that fessor entered with a bold ~ep amid pro- Wilson naturally indignant at the false ac- found silence. Every one expected some cusations thus brought against him, was deprecatory or propitiatory introduction of driven to the strange and painful necessity himself and his subject, upon which the of writing to his private friends to ask their mass was to divide against him, reason or testin~ony in respect to his character, and to no reason; but he began in a voice of thun- request from them such an estimate of his der right into the matter of the lecture, kept household virtues as might be sufficient to up unflinchingly and unhesitatingly without place that perfectly unexceptionable aspect a pause. Not a word, not a murmur es- of his life in its true light. He wrote to the caped his captivated, I ought to say his con- clergyman at Windermere who had officiated quered, audience, and at the end they gave at his marriage, and to such a half-domestic, him a right-down unanimous burst of ap half-public authority as Mrs. Grant of Lag- plause. When the legiiimate hour which gan, then one of the centres of society in belonged to the new professor was cx- Edinburgh, asking them to tell his assail- hausted, Anatomical Monro, austere and ants what they, a priest and a woman, abstract, xv ith no human sympathy in him thought of the husband of that elegant and for the first lecture and the special circum- delicate young Englishwoman, who ha.d not stances, stalked into the room, in which he feared to wander over hill and dale with him himself was to succeed the present occu who was now accused of neglecting and pant, and, ruthlessly breaking in upon the wronging her and her children. Of all address, pointed to his watch to show that points, indeed, at which he could have been his own hour had arrived. My students assailed, this seems to have been the least are at the door, and you must conclude, vulnerable. Hard and mortifying as it must said the inhuman anatomist; but was imme- have been to his high and impatient spirit to diately silenced by the renewed applause of ask for such commendations, he was now the students, amid which the new orator sufficiently bent upon attaining his end to made a triumphant conclusion. It was thus submit to the necessity; his friends bore that Wilson made his first entry into the their testimony with effusive and indignant chair which he xvas to fill so long, and in affectionateness; and having at last failed which he was to hold so genial a sway over even to prove the favorite stigma of the generations of eager and enthusiastic hearts. time, that their brilliant opponent was an His success, however, was immediate and infidel, the Whig opposition succumbed, and unquestionable, to the conviction of both Wilson won the day. friends and foes; and even his newspaper The vexatious and ungenerous strife did assailants, Mrs. Gordon says, condescended not end with the election. A certain Dea- to admit that, if he continued to do well, his JOHN WILSON. past delinquencies might be forgiven him. It is an interesting period of the new pro- fessors history: Wilson seems to have taken the tempest with manful composure and steadiness, standing to his arms with an amount of calm amid all the stinging shower of projectiles that flew around him, which could scarcely have been expected of his fiery nature. And when the smoke of the conflict clears off, the many-sided man gleams upon us in a new aspect, shutting himself up, apart from all the recreations and de- lights in which his life had hitherto abounded, in a room literally filled with books, de- voting himself, with a closeness of applica- tion of which up to this time he had shown few symptoihs, to the new work on which he had entered. The dreaming poet has had his day, and may have it again; so has the open-air iDalesman, with all his mighty muscles still in their grandest development; and so even has the critic, absolute and dauntless, without a scruple or compunction; but here, in the mean time, is a philosopher grave, conscientious, anxious taking counsel with hooks and friends, without ap- parently a thought in his mind but how to fulfil this new duty, and hold his post with honesty and honor. To turn away from all those vulgar contentions, the slanders of enemies and formal testimonials of friends, the vexations and vicissitudes of the contest, and the agitated and unreasonable crowd which has fought over this question without any knowledge worth mentioning of the real point at issueand, subsiding into the quiet little house in Anne Street, among the early summer trees, to look over his great shoulder and find the new professor pouring forth his anxious soul to his dearest old friend, Dr. Blair, and recommending to the considera- tion of the hclper upon whose judgment he has so much reliance, the plan he has formed for his untried work, and the system which suggests itself to his own intent and concen- trated thoughtsis a contrast as remarkable and interesting as can he imagined. Of all the letters printed in these volumes, there are perhaps none which reveal the writer in an aspect so noble as those letters to Dr. Blair. Here it is a man, already known to fame, the victor of a hard contest, the win- ner of many laurels, who comes, with an earnestness much too real to admit of any attitudinizing, to the oracle which he has THIRD SERIES. LIVING XGE~. 969. elected for himself in the person of his friend, a man totally unknown to the world: and, entering into all his plans and thoughts in detail, craves advice, guidance, instruction, with utter simplicity and confidence. It is thus that Mrs. Gordon describes one of the letters of this remarkable correspondence Of all the friends to whom he applied for counsel in this time of anxiety, there was none on whom he so implicitly relied, or who was so able to assist him, as Alexander Blair. To him he unbosomed himself in all the con- fidence of friendship, and in several long and elaborate letterstoo long to be given entireentered minutely into his plans for the course, asking for advice and sugges- tions with the eagerness and humility of a pupil to his master. He gives a list of the books he has got, and asks his friend to tell him what others he should havewhat he thinks of this and that theoryhow many lectures there should be on this topic and on that. He sketches his own planhow he is. to commence with some attractive and elo- quent introductory lectures, of a popular though philosophical kind, so as to make a good impression at first on his students, and also on the public. Then he proposes to give eight or ten lectures on the moral sys- tems of ancient Greece, which Sir Walter Scott approves, and which ho hopes~ Blair will also approve of. Then will commence his own course in right earnest: six or more lectures on the physical nature of man then twelve more, though for no capse known, on the intellectual powers. On this he wishes to have Blairs opinion, for at present he sees nothing for it hut to tread in the steps of Reid and Stewart which to avoid would be of great importance. . Then might come some lectures on taste and genius hefore coming to the moral being. Let Blair consider the subject. That brings us up to forty lectures. Then comes the moral naturethe affections and conscience or whatever name that faculty may be called. Here seems fine ground for descrip- tions of the operations of the passions and affections, and all concerned with them. . - Then comes the will and all its prob- lems, requiring at least six lectures. But here I am also in the dark. The rest of the course will embrace fifty lectures respecting the duties of the human being. I would fain hope that something very different from the common metaphysical lectures will pro- duce itself out of this plan. He will read on and attend most religiously to the sug- gestions of his friend. Let his friend mean- time consider everything, and remember how short the time is. . . . The letter ends that day with a God bless you! 82 It is this variety of character, always un- folding new aspects and opening up un- thought-of powers, which is the great charm of Wilsons mind. Whatever he may happen to he for the moment, he is so entirely, that, a superficial observer is tempted to believe that only must be his chief inspiration. But in the twinkling of an eye the scene changes, and the same picturesque and no- ble figure gleams round, like a many- lighted lantern, in a new colour and altered radiance. So quick is the transition that the spectator is puzzled, and hesitates what to make of the brilliant improvisatore who extemporizes not only a new language but a new being at every turn. From poetry to prose, from sentiment to satire, from the most joyous of all idle lives to sudden Hercules-efforts of toil, he flashes upon us in. revolving circles, ever brighter and more vivid than before, as though under his own. belt he carried a hundred men. A greater difference could scarcely be conceived than between that jovial wanderer, ever ready for sport or frolic, who comes into the little Highland inn all laden with silvery spoils from loch and river, and this serious scholar among his books, working out with brilliant. and rapid genius, but with steady labour as well, his first course of lectures. Instead of finding comparisons for him among the men of his time, it is only with himself that we can compare and contrast this manifold and multifarious soul. The life and force, the endless tide of vital energy and superb hu- man strength which courses through his great veins, flow over upon everything he touches. All Edinburgh gleams alight with him as he goes about the streets; and where he stands, in the Chair of the Professor, in the Sanctum of Princes Street, and, still more, in the Ambrosian parlor, is about to become a luminous spot over half the world. The light is but at the dawning when he sits thus in his suburban retirement, making out his lectures, anxious yet for the position which he has won after so hard a fight. His whole career lies unrevealed before him in that green seclusion of Anne Street, where he works among his books, unaware as yet that not the noble firth, gleaming almost before his eyes, nor the. lion-hill. behind, will one day be more identified with Edinburgh than his own grand person and familiar fame. It is the beginning of his public life, and he stands on the eve of all his triumphs. Be- hind him lies as happy, yet as hard, a pro~ bation as often falls to the lot of man; years of sunshine dazzling and effulgent, barred with sudden breaks of shadow. Already, in the early play of his powers, reputation and influence have come to him, more in sport and by chance than from purpose or toil. Now he stands on the height of the arch of his life, and, breathing hard after the stings of that last sharp stretch of ascent, surveys the campaign before him, most likely as little. aware of what was in it as any other mortal. He is not thinking of literature, he is think- ing of his lectures. The young professor, in whom only half of his encircling world believes, has that burden on his mind, in the first place to make sure provision for the wants of his post; and, thereafter, what pleases Providence. For Christopher North has not been revealed yet out of the mirth- ful skies; summer days only, and gay hours of the youthful twilight, but as yet no Noctes have educed their bright impressions out of that glowing, impetuous, and sunshiny soul. His fame and his work lie still before him, casting uncertain shadows upon the sanguine firmamunt. Space and time forbid us here to enter into the brilliant perspective. Let us leave him for the moment at this natural period. For the first time, and with a novel sound, his name. has become dignified into that of Professor Wilson. And there he sits, with his piled-up books, noting down the rapid suggestions of his genius for calm examination and, arrangement, and inviting his friend to enter into those open and can- did chambers of his thoughts to supervize and regulate the process. We could not. pause upon a picture more full of truth and meaning. When we open the record again it will be upon a fuller light and a more an- imated foreground. Let us leave our hero in the mean time in his study, consulting with anxious simplicity, and trusting with the confidence of a child in the final judg.. ment of his early companion. It was thus that the new professor began the serious business of his life. JOHN WILSON. THE FAILURES OF FRENCH DIPLOMACY. From The Spectator, 6 Dec. THE FAILURES OF FRENCH DIPLOMACY. THE Ides of March have passed, and the C~sar is still alive, it is said that the Em- peror of the French, moved by one of those currents of superstition which affect men who have gone through strange careers, re- garded this 2d of December, the tenth anni- versary of the coup dWat, with a peculiar dread. The thought was a somewhat strange one, for the 2d of December has hitherto brought him fortune; and even he, with all his superb self-confidence, can scarcely be- lieve that the day of his death will be one of his lucky days! Still it was entertained, and was, in part, perhaps, justified by the new activity perceptible in all ranks of the opposition, and the rapid increase of the al- ways numerous conspiracies with which, to employ a bold figure, his throne is honey- combed. Patient observers, as indifferent as Arthur Young when he predicted the fall of the Bourbons, do not doubt that the dis- content of France has, within the last few. months, spread wider and deeper, and ex- tended to classes usually as careless of poli- tics as they are hostile to Red opinions. There is dissatisfaction among the bourgeoi- .sie, hitherto willing to pardon all things to the saviour of society, and low murmurs among the army which serves as the jeal, thou~h well-concealed basis of the imperial power. Neither of these probably ever heard of the Ides of March, or have the faintest belief in anything save money and steel; yet the fear of an approaching catastrophe, of some tremendous event which should shake society, was so widely diffused as to extort from the Times a strange article, an- nouncing, with a plainness surely unneces- sary, that England would greatly disapprove the emperors assassination There are reasons for this agitation other than the predictions of Mr. Home. French society is disturbed because the reward to secure which it endures a despotic rlgime seems to be eluding its grasp. For the last hundred years the people of France, amidst never-ending mutations of opinion, have de- manded of their rulers one of two things, progress at home, or a grand prestige abroad. Louis the Sixteenth fell because he was un- able to secure either. Napoleon gave his people the secondwithout measure or stint, and till his eagles faltered was absolnte mas- ter of France, and, defeated, left behind him a memory which again raised his dynasty to the throne; Charles the Tenth refused both, and fell; Louis Philippe stole away liberty, restricted progress, allowed external influ- ence to slip completely out of his grasp, and slunk away out of France. The republic promised no glory, and gave no assurance of progress, and when Louis Napoleon seized the throne, he, understanding alike his epoch and his people, pledged himself to save so- ciety, i.e., bourgeois prosperity, and sweep away the treaties of 1815. Hitherto he has kept his word. Amid much oppression and an almost total extinction of the freedom of speech and debate, the French have been enriched with the wealth which springs of order, and gratified with the prestige which follows successful power. The treaties of 1815 have been torn up at the point of the sword. The Frenchmen who mourned over the torpor of the press and the catalepsey of the tribune still found consolation in the idea that France was, abroad, the accepted leader of Europe. She had humbled Rus- sia; she had enfranchised Italy; she had avenged Europe in China; she had gone forth to revive the dying civilization of Mex- ico. Everywhere she appeared as the arrped champion of progress and nationality, with- out whose initiative the world held back in fear, and without whose consent no first-class experiment could be tried. Whatever the squalor at home the rOte before the footlights was grand, and France, essentially theatri- cal, forgave the unwashed chemise to which she was condemned indoors, for the sake of the queenly robe in which out of them all her parts were played. A cold fear chills, for the moment, the pleasant warmth of habitual vanity. What if the part played by France were not really so great as she had been led to supposeif her detested rival, though stripped of all spangles and forbidden a train, were acting the character on which genius had expended its strength P The empire is as strong as ever, but it has met, of late, some exceed- ingly rude rebuffs. There is Italy, for whose sake the emperor has expended so many lives not his own, and so much treasure of which he was only the elected custodianis France all-powerful there P Italy, say French politicians, almost sullenly, it would seem reverences England more than France; con- sults Sir James Hudson when M. Benedetti is civilly put aside, upholds English ideas of parliamentary government and order,. thanks Earl Russell with statuary for his cordial support, and finally ovcrthrows the special French nominee. French opinion, always somewhat diseased upon that point, regards the struggle at Turina struggle which is entirely one between the people and the kings favoriteas mainly a contest be- tween the friends of England and France. The helpless fall of Rattazzi,. known to he devoted to France., strikes Frenchmen as a proof that Napoleonic diplomacy, with all its material power, still weakens French bold over nations. If Italy, in her wise national selfishness,should deem the unbought friend- ship of England as valuable as the purchased 84 THE FAILURES OF FRENCH DIPLOMACY. ideas of France, then must the Italian strives for peace, yet is ready for war, which policy of three years he pronounced a patent ahove all upholds unflinchingly the true pop and costly failure. Then there is the frontier ular creed, the right of every people to gov- of the Rhine. Napoleon has helped, no em itselfthis is the country which Greece, douht, to place the Prussian king in antag- as well as Italy, thinks it worth while to imi- onism with his people; hut the new premier, tate and to secure. The reflection is galling though absolutist, is still intensely German; to men who feel that, hut for Napoleon, and as for the monarch, he wanted part of France might again take her natural post as the refused budget to expend on a complete the leader of continental ideas; and who, to repair of the fortifications of Magdeburg. do them justice, believe that distinction one Again, the greatest event of the last ten of the few which are nobler than the lead in years is the civil war, which for eighteen diplomacy or victory on the field. France, months has threatened the dismemberment it would seem, in Greece also, is not the of the United States. France in that, as in first power in the world. every other quarrel, must assume the lead- Lastly, throughout these events, running ing position, and the emperor consequently alongside them all, is the history of the recommended England and Russia to join Mexican expedition. Frenchmen never ap- him in a project of menacing mediation. proved that dreamy project, for the conquest English statesmen, well a~vare that media- of vast deserts ravaged hy the vomito never tion means intervention, that intervention seemed to them worth the risk of a conflict is costly, and that the English working-class, with North America. Still the expedition enlightened by emigrants letters, is very sailed, and- in a few weeks broke down. The strongly Northern in sympathy, declined the deserts were worse than expected, the Mexi- specious proposal. The French Govern- cans more hostile than was anticipated. meat therefore remains, in American poli- Nobody but an intrigant and a bandit joined tics, alone, with no alliance to offer to the France, and a French army was reduced to South, except at the cost of a war, and with fortify itself on a plain in order to avoid a their old and natural alliance with4he North surrender. Defeat is impossible to Napo- embarrassed or broken up. France seems leon, and the army, at huge expense, was in- in America also not to be the first power in creased tenfold; and after a delay very fatal the world. Scarcely has this negotiation to the French notion of glory,which, like been commenced, when a revolution breaks an ESglishmans passion for wealth, includes out in Greece. The Greek throne becomes speedy possessionthe new host arrived, vacant, and once more French diplomacy has only to march on the capital at the rate of a a magnificent field. The French people is league a day. Nobody except the emperor really interested in the so-called Eastern knows precisely what has gone wrong in question, for that question involves the pos- Mexico, but the fact is sufficiently patent session of Syria, and the sentiment which that after eight months of effort aii Indian, evolved the Crusadesdead everywhere else backed by a half-disciplined army of half- exists in France as a living power. The castes, succeeds in setting a general of people care about Jerusalem more than they France and a French corps darmee at open do about Rome. To seat a French nominee defiance. The hearts of Frenchmen grow on the throne of Greece would almost secure sore as they reflect on these things, and like Syria, and by rare good fortune the chosen Italians when it refuses to rain, they are French nominee was also the favorite at St. ready to turn on the idol who has received Petersburg. The Greeks could never resist so many offerings and yet refuses the price. at once both Russia and France, and the Do we, therefore, consider the empire in election of the Due de Leuchtenberg was re- serious danger? Not so. It might be with garded as almost certain, when again French an inferior man on the throne, or the same diplomacy failed. The whole Greek nation, man grown old; but Napoleon the Third, unmoved by English intrigues, unsolicited indolent, self-confident, and wearied as he by English ministers, has pronounced em- may be, is still the most astute and ener- phatically that the next King of the Greeks getic of living rulers. He will detect, if he shall be an English prince. The failure is has not already detected, the cause of the the more humiliating, because, in spite of dissatisfaction of France, and the brain angry remarks, its causes are thoroughly which has never failed him yet will aid him understood. The French, more than any once again. It is not an ~meute we fear for other people on earth, appreciate the power France, but the proved necessity for achiev- of ideas, know bow powerless intrigues be- ing some new and striking success. The come when addressed to men governed by a emperor must do something, and the some- great thought; and they feel that it is Eng- thing must impose on the world. He can- lish ideas, not English bayonets, which have not well undo Italy, for Orsini is not forgot- secured their defeat. The country which ten; and, unless hopelessly embarrassed, he reverences order but maintains liberty, will scarcely select the one power which can THE DEFECT OF AMERICA. 85 face him on equal terms. Events are not always better education, higher social posi- ripe for a German campaign, lesser expedi.. tion, moreflrst-hand conversancy with pub- tions promise no glory, and the dream of re- lic affairs. The latter especially it has al- organizing Spanish America does not attract ways. A Legislative Chamber close to the his people. He must discover an object scene of action is necessarily more conscious great enough to flatter France, yet in which of the exact nature of public business, is England has no interest to interfere, and in more alive to the evident issue of proximate which the absence of his army in Mexico national decisions than the country at large will not be an embarrassment, and the only can be. A Parliament, when it selects its quarter in which such an object is visible is ruler, does so with a full cognizance of the the American Civil War. An armed medi- real importance of what it is doing. A na- ation would enable him to release the cotton tion rarely can do so. When very great his people need and the tobacco necessary principles are at stake,when the best na- to his revenue, would afford him the pretext tional mind is thoroughly roused,the se- required for retreating from MexicG, perhaps lection may be good. The Americans chose over a golden bridge constructed both by General Washington in preference to George Juarez and the South, and enable him once the Third, and they chose well. But when more to stand forward before the French na- the public mind is unexcitcd,.when there tion in the only position which makes him is no great event to stimulate it,when po- safethe arbiter of a continent. litical transactions are not so large as to _________ awaken diffused feeling and diffused imagi- nation,the nation en masse is indifferent. From The Economist, 6 Dec. It is not so much a bad judge as no judge. THE DEFECT OF AMEUICA. It has simply no opinion on the matter in PRESIDENTIAL AND MINISTERIAL GOVERN- hand. In consequence it judges at random; MENTS COMPARED. or rather, like a large constituency in parlia- THE American Revolution has been con- mentary counties, like the borough of Fins- sidered excessively in van ous aspects, but bury or Lambeth, it is apt to fall into the there is one aspect in which it has not been hands of electioneering associations. It is sufficiently considered. The South have too large to be canvassed, or managed, or per- adopted from the North the vital principle of sonally solicited by the candidate. And as the constitution of what was the Union, nnd it some elective apparatus, some choosing ma- is not too much to say that this principle con- chinery, some mode of saying who shall vote tains an essential defect which has much con- for whom is necessarily requisite, a perpetual tributed to the successful rupture of the Union. one is created, which chooses, not for patriotic Free Governments are of necessity divided reasons, but for corrupt reasons. The popa- into two classes, which may be called the lar mind is at sea; it cannot elect for itself; Ministerial and the Presidential. Minor and it falls into the guidance of professional differences may be for this purpose disre- electors (President-makers is the American garded, since minute ramifications will of word), who choose, not for the best reasons, necessity arise in the various circumstances but for the worst,not for what the elected of different countries, but the essential con- man will do, but for what they themselves trast remains. In Ministerial Governments will get. The vast unorganized popular con- the supreme Executive is appointed by the stituency follows these licensed managers Legislative Assembly; in Presidential Gov- like sheep, as on a much smaller and more eraments the Executive claims directly un- manageable scale one of the best of our met- der the people, as it alleges .~nd boasts, and ropolitan constituencies obeyed thefat of its is specially elected by the nation at large. managers in the choice of Mr. Roupell. The type of Ministerial Government is the And, secondly, even if the electors under English: the type of Presidential Govern- the two forms of Government were equally ment is the American. With the aid of re- competent,even if a skilled assembly at cent events, a little consideration will show the centre of politics were on a level in in- that the latter method is radically inferior to herent capabilities with a scattered unskilful the former,although, being, in appearance people,it would not be less true that in at least, free to choose, the Southern Con- accidental opportunities the assembly is far federacy have selected it in preference to the superior to the people. The House of Coin- former. There are three most effective mons sees Lord Palmerston every day; the causes of inferiority. American people never saw Mr. Lincoln at all.. First. The choosers under a Ministerial The choice of a Parliament is made necessa- system are much better than in the Presi- rily and naturally from its marked leaders, its dential. A Legislative Chamber is always a authoritative heads of parties, its most prom- select body, even under the worst system of inent and business-like members. The prime election, far excelling the electing body from minister under a Parliamentary Government which it emanated. On the average it has must, it has been said, have these qualities. THE DEFECT OF AMERICA. A Prime Minister under a Parliamentary constitution must have a very great number of great qualities. He must be a man of business long trained in great affairs; he must be, if not a great orator, a great ex- plainer; he must be able to expound with perspicuity to a mixed assembly complicated measures and involved transactions; he must be a great party leader, and have the knowl- edge of men, the easy use of men, and the miscellaneous sagacity, which such eminence necessarily implies; he must be a ready man, a managing man, and an intelligible man.~ But an elective President chosen by the nation en masse need not have any of these excellencies. The electors have no means of testing daily and accurately whether be has them or not. An election by the peo- ple is a choice by distant people who are unskilled in business, and who have no close opportunities of investigating the respective merits of competing statesmen. The choice of a Pafliament is the choice of compara- tively skilled men that have the best oppor- tunities of judging of those statesmen who strive as gladiators in the arena before them. Thirdly. A Parliament can choose for an unfixed time; a people must choose for a fixed one. This follows naturally from the very nature of the two constituencies. A Parliament can act, judge, and decide when- ever it happens to be sitting. It is a delib- erative assembly, whose forms are contrived to promote due consideration and to expe- dite careful decision. If new circumstances arise, it can judge of them when they hap- pen; if there is no change, they need come to no new or formal decision. They have a perpetual and latent power of ready choice which is always in reserve. If Lord Pal- merston should be unequal to a sudden exi- gency, we can seek elsewhere; we can in that exigency find, by the choice and inter- vention of Parliament, a new ruler more precisely fit for it. But a large nation, such as only we need consider in modern times, cannot be continually choosing its rulers, and cannot change them at a sudden emergency. A presidential election at uncertain intervals would be an impossibility. The mass of the people are occupied in their own affairs, busy with their own trade, their profession, or their idleness, and they cannot be without warning, called to choose a sovereign. And this contrast between nations and Parlia- ment has two consequences, both favorable to the Ministerial form of Government, and both unfavorable to the Presidential. The President, as we see in the case of Mr. Lin- coln, when chosen at the stated day, must be retained till the next stated day of presi- dential election, however unfit, incompetent, and ignorant he may be: though chosen for quiet times, he must be continued through unquiet times; though selected for a calm, he must be trusted as principal pilot through a storm. An irremovable ruler is as bad or worse than an unalterable law. Four years is as short a period as can elapse be- tween one national choice of a sovereign and the next. If the interval were much less, the election would be chronic and per- petual, and there never would be a firm sov- ereign at all. But in four years the whole political world may change. A Crimean War or an Indian mutiny may introduce on a sudden, elements of incalculable force which no one could anticipate beforehand. The worst defect of a Presidential Govern- ment is, that it leases for a stated term the supremacy to a single man, without the pos- sibility of knowing beforehand whether he will be fit to control and master the unfore- seen (and perhaps perilous) conjunctures which must happen during that term. Again. It is a minor but still consider- able defect of a Presidential Government, that not only does it compel the nation to wait during a certain interval before it makes a new choice of a supreme ruler, but also that it enforces a choice at the end of that interval. In a Parliamentary Government there is no stated day at which Lord Pal- merston must he rechosen prime minister. He is removable at pleasure, but he is not under notice to quit; his power does not of itself cease and determine at a particular time~ The country, therefore, is not bewil- dered, nor isits policy deranged, by the proximate probability that upon a certain 4th of March the entire machinery of Gov- ernment may be changedthat everything which is may cease to be, and everything which is not as yet may begin to be. In a Presidential Government, therefore, the Executive administrator is chosen by un- skilled persons, whereas in a Ministerial Gov- ernment he is chosen by comparatively skilled persons; he is chosen by persons who have few opportunities of judging, whereas a Parlia- ment has many and good opportunities; he must be chosen at a fixed time, whereas in a Ministerial Constitution the country is never convulsed without necessity, and the same Cabinet may last twenty years; he is chosen for a fixed time, and during that period he must remain, however incompetent he may be to new events and changing circumstances, and though by his gross unfitness he may he pal- pably ruining the country. Even these sev- eral points of superiority are not all which a Parliamentary Government possess, but they are enough to show that we need not grudge our transatlantic relatives that form of Government which the disunited States, both North and South, from habit, blind- ness, and ignorance of what is better, seem both of them disposed to retain. 86 THII~ ANCiENT WAYS. From The N.Y. Evening Post. THE ANCIENT WAYS. TESTTh!ONIES OF TilE FATHERS OF THE REPUBLIC. WHO HAVE CHAEGED? WE noticed some days ago the publica~ tion of Mr. Livermores valuable volume,* and promised to give in our columns at an- other time some extracts from the documents which, with singular industry and good for- tune, he has been able to coflect, bearing upon the general question: in what light was the negro regarded by those patriots and lovers of liberty whose wisdom and courage founded this Republic P This promise we now proceed to fulfil. Mr. Livermore begins his volume with extracts from a message of Mr. Jefferson Davis, from speeches of Alexander Stephens, and from the infamous Dred Scott Deci- sion of Judge Taney. To these he adds the replies of Judges McLean and Curtis to Taney, and extracts from Mr. George Ban- crofts truly eloquent comments on the Dred Scott Decision, in the 22d of Feb- ruary address before the Common Council of this city; and from Mr. Everetts New York address, July 4th, 1861. He then proceeds to show, from numerous documents, what was the expressed senti- ment of the people of the colonies, and of their leaders, in regard to the natural right of negroes ; what was the real place of the blacks in society in the different colonies; how human slaverynegro slaverywas re- garded by the leaders of opinion on this con-. tinent; what was thought of using negroes as soldiers during the Revolutionary strug- gle. In a time like this, when the Republic is threatened with destruction by men who profess to be the only Americans faithful to the traditions of its founders, it is necessary to go back carefully to the opinions of those noble men. The Union as it was is a taking party cry, because Americans, while they continue to reverence the wisdom and purity of the framers of our Constitution and Government, are too often blind to the change which the supporters of a terrible wrong ~ An Historical Research, respecting the opin- ions of the Founders of the Republic, on Negroes, as Slaves, as Citizens, and as Soldiers, read before the Massachusetts Historical Society, August 14, 1862, by George Livermore. Boston: Pr~ted by John Wilson and Son. 87 have subtly infused into the spirit of our in- stitutions, The Union as it was under Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, is the aspiration of every loyal American, of every faithful lover of liberty. But the Union as it was~~ under the ad- ministration of Buchanan, as it had been mnde under the influence of the Davises, the Floyds, the Wigfalls, the Pryors, the Keitts, the Hunters, the Slidellsthis Union, in which free speech was forbidden in half our bounds and threatened in the remaining half; in which the name and strength of lib- erty were prostituted to maintain and ex- tend human bondage; in which a few slave- breeders and slave-drivers, grown defiant and reckless by the too long tolerance of free men, fiercely trampled upon every law guarding liberty, and sought to impose upon the whole nation the duty of guarding their slavesthis Union was not that of Wash- ington. Its spirit was widely different from that which made us a nation powerful and glorious. It is n6t slavery, but liberty, which made us great. It was not in the spirit of partial, but of universal liberty that our forefathers fought and legislated; and it is in the Free States, amid free speech, with the help of a free press, and in the hearts of free laboring men, that the just and humane spirit of the founders of the Republic has been preserved; while in the Slaire States has come about a literal fulfilment of the prophetic words of Jefferson in his Notes on Virginia The whole commerce between master and slave is a perpetual exercise of the most boisterous passions; the most unremitting despotism on the one part, and degrading submissions on the other. Our children see this, and learn to imitate it; for man is an imitative animal. The parent storms; the child looks on, catches the lineaments of wrath, puts on the same airs in the circle of smaller slaves, gives a loose rein to the worst of passions; and thus nursed, educated, and daily exercised in tyranny, cannot but be stamped by it with odious peculiarities. The man must be a prodigy who can retain his manners and morals undepraved by such circumstances. And with what execratiork should the statesman be loaded who, per- mitting one-half the citizens thus to trample on the rights of the other, transforms those into despots, and these into enemies; de- stroys the morals of the one part, and the amer patrice of the other. THE ANCIENT WAYS. THE TESTI3fONY OF THE FATHERS. To maintain that the founders of the Gov- ernment created it to perpetuate liberty and not slavery, seems like maintaining the most abject of truisms. Yet in these sad times, brought upon us by the too careless toler- ance of a powerful wrong, even this must be proved; and liberty is arraigned upon the very soil which has been called her true home. What, then, did the fathers think and say on this subject? The first article in our national creed is the key-note to all their thoughts We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal ; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness that, to secure these rights governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. It has been truly said by Mr. Bancroft: The heart of Jefferson in writing the Dec- laration, and of Congress in ad opting it, beat for all humanity: the assertion of right was made for all mankind and all coming gen- erations, without any exception whatever; for the proposition which admits of excep tions can never be self-evident. Jeffersons opinions of slavery are well- known; but it should he remembered that, strong as they were, and constantly pub- lished, they excited no opposition. lie was merely expressing the public sentiment of Virginia when he wrote, on August 1, 1774, the instruction for the first delegation of Virginia to the Congress. In this, published afterwards in pamphlet form with the title, A Summary view of the Rights of British America, this is one of the grievances pre- sented The abolition of domestic slavery is the great object of desire in these colonies, where it was, unhappily, introduced in their in- fant state. But, previous to the enfranchise- ment of the slaves we have, it is necessary to exclude ailfurther import ationsfrom Africa. Yet our repeated attempts to effect this by prohibitions, and by imposing duties which might amount to a prohibition, have been hitherto defeated by his majestys negative. In accordance with this spirit, the second article of the Continental Association, adopted and signed by all the members of the Congress October 20th of the same year (1774), reads thus That we will neither import nor pur~ chase any slave imported after the first day of December next; after which we will wholly discontinue the slave trade, and will neither be concerned in it ourselves, nor will we hire our vessels nor sell our commodities or manufactures to those who are concerned in it. This was done as the beginning of the abolition of slavery; and it was adopted by all the colonies in their separate Congresses, as well as by their delegates to the General Congress. Nor was the agreement a dead letter, as Mr. Livermore shows, by an ad- dress To the Freemen of Virginia, by the committee of the town of Norfolk, exposing to universal contempt, as the enemy of American liberty, one John Brown, mer- chant of Norfolk, who in the following March was detected in smuggling slaves into Virginia from Jamaica. It is an odd circumstance that the name of this persistent man-stealer should be the same as his who, eighty-four years afterwards, threw all the South into a ferment by his bold dash at slavery. Washington all his life condemned slav~ ery, ajid at his death set free his slaves. One of the last acts of Franklins life was to sign an Address to the Public from the Penn- sylvania Society for the Abolition of Slav- ery. John Adams wrote, a few years be- fore his death I have, through my whole life, held the practice of slavery in such abhorrence that I have never owned a negro or any other slave. Jefferson intended, as he wrote to M. de Meusnier, to introduce in the Virginia As- sembly, had he not been called to France, an amendatory clause for the gradual abo- lition of slavery ~ and he adds in the same note, in allusion to the matter having been put off, as inexpedient at that time But we must await with patience the workings of an overruling Providence, and hope that that is preparing the deliverance of these our suffering brethren. When the measure of their tears shall be full; when their groans shall have involved heaven it- self in darknessdoubtless a God of justice will awaken to their distress, and, by diffus- ing lightand liberality among their oppress- ors, or, at length, by his exterminating thun- der, manifest his attention to the things of 88 THE ANCIENT WAYS. this world, and that they are not left to The guidance of a blind fatality. Christopher Gadsden and Henry Laurens, of South Carolina, have left their testimony in opposition to slavery in no ambiguous terms. Mr. Laurens wrote from ~arleston in August, 1776, a letter quoted by Mr. Livermore, setting out with the words: You know, my dear son, I abhor slavery. He proclaims to the son his intention to set free his slaves, and asks for his concurrence and approbation, advice and assistance. In the Constitutional Convention, Mr. Madison thought it wrong to admit in the Constitution the idea of property in men, and this was the prevailing opinion in the convention: Southern as well as North- ern men agreeing in the expressed opinion of Mr. Pinckney, of South Carolina, that if the Southern States are let alone, they will probably of themselves stop importations; he would himself, as a citizen of South Car- olina, vote for it,and of Mr. Ellsworth, that slavery, in time, will not be a speck in our country. Gouverneur Morris, of Pennsylvania, to whom was finally committed the Constitution, to give finish to the style and arrangement of that instrument, said, in 1787, he never would concur in. upholding domestic slavery. It was a nefarious institution. It was the curse of Heaven on the States where it pre- vailed. Luther Martin, of Maryland, held that the continued importation of slaves was in- consistent with the principles of the Revolu- tion, and dishonorable to the American char- acter. Colonel Mason, of Virginia, said that, Slavery discourages arts and manufac- tures. The poor despise labor when per- formed by slaves. They prevent the emi- gration of whites, who really enrich and strengthen a country. They produce the most pernicious effect on manners. Every master of slaves is born a petty tyrant. They bring the judgment of Heaven on a country. As nations cannot be rewarded or punished in the next world, they must be in this. By an inevitable chain of causes and effects, Providence punishes national sins by na- tional calamities. He held it essential, in every point of view, that the General Gov- ernment should have the power ~ prevent the increase of slavery. James Wilson, appointed by Washington Judge of the Supreme. Court, said of the con- stitutional power given to Congress to pro- hibit the importation of slaves I consider this as laying the foundation for banishing slavery out of this country; and though the period is more distant than I could wish, yet it will produce the same kind, gradual change which was pursued in Pennsylvania. I am sorry that it could be extended no farther; but, so far as it operates, it pre- sents us with the pleasing prospect, that the rights of mankind will be acknowledged and, established throughout the Union. If there was no other lovely feature in the Constitution but this one, it would diffuse a beauty over its whole countenance. Yet the lapse of a few years, and Congress will have power to exterminate slavery from within our borders. In 1796 Mr~ St. George Tucker, law-pro- fessor in William and Mary College, in Vir- ginia, published a treatise entitled A iDis- sertation on Slavery, with a Proposal for the Gradual Abolition of it in the State of Virginia. In his preface to the essay he speaks of the abolition of slavery in this State as an object of the first importance, not only to our moral character and domes- tic peace, but even to our political salva- tion. In 1797, Mr. Piuckney, in the legis- lature of Maryland, maintained that, by the eternal principles of justice, no man in the State has a right to hold his slave a single hour. CITIZENSHIP OF FREE BLACKS. Thus much as to the faith of the founders of the Republic on the subject of human slavery. The fourth of the Articles of Confedera- tion declared the citizenship of free negroes in these words: The free inhabitants of each of these Statespaupers, vagabonds, and fugitives from justice exceptedshall be entitled to all the immunities of free cit- izens in the several States. Mr. Liver- more remarks It was not by accident or oversight that negroes were included in the phrase free inhabitants; for, when this article was under consideration, the delegates from South Carolina moved to amend by insert- ing between the words free and inhabi- tants the word white. The proposed amendment was lost; only two States vot- ing in the affirmative. In the ninth article, TH1~ ANCIENT WAYS. providing for forces for the common defence, the word white was retained. The State of New Jersey, although a slaveholding State, objected to this, and made a repre- sentation to Congress on the subject. Judge Curtis said truly, as to the citizen- ship of black men in our early days At the time of the ratification of the Articles of Confederation all free native- born inhabitants of the States of New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York, New Jersey, and South Carolina, though de- scended from African slaves, were not only citizens of those States, but such of them as had the other necessary qualifications possessed the franchise of elections, on equal terms with other citizens. He quotes a decision of Judge Gaston, of North Carolina, in The State agt. Manuel, where the judge says Foreigners, until made members of the State, remained aliens. Slaves, manumitted here, became freemen; and, therefore, if born within North Carolina, are citizens of North Carolina; and all free persons born within the State are born citizens of the State. The Constitution extended the elec- tive franchise to every freeman who had ar- rived at the age of twenty-one and paid a public tax; and it is a matter of universal notoriety that, under it, free persons with- out regard to color, claimed and exercised the franchise, until it was taken from free men of color a few years since by an amended constitutIOn. BLACK SOLDIEItS. In relation to the question of using ne- groes as soldiers, - Mr. Livermore has col- lected a most important mass of evidence, all going to show that the wisest and fore- most men of the Revolutionary struggle were favorable to the employment of negro soldiers; and that, in fact, black men were in the Revolutionary armies in considerable numbers, and fought bravelyoften desper- ately---for the cause of liberty, theirs as much ,as any ones. Crispus Attucks was a mulatto slave, ad- vertised as a runaway, for whose return ten pounds would be paid, in 1750. Twenty years afterwards, on March 5th, 1770, he rallied a wavering crowd of citizens, led them against the soldiers, and himself fell by their fire, the first martyr in the Boston Massacre, of whieh Daniel Webster said: From that moment we may date the sever- ance of the British empire. Attucks was buried with public honors, and the stone placed over the four victims of the massacre had this inscription Long as in Freedoms cause the wise contend, Dear to your country shall your fame extend, While t~the world the lettered stone shall tell Where ~aldwell, Attucks, Gray, and Maverick fell. At the battle of Bunker Hill, on the mem- orable 17th of June, 1775, negro soldiers stood side by side, and fought bravely, with their white brethren; and Peter Salem, a ne- gro soldier, once a slave, fired the shot which killed Major Pitcairn, of the British marines, who led the assault. Colonel Trumbull, in his celebrated historic picture of this battle, introduces conspicuously the colored patriot. Peter served faithfully as a soldier, during the ~var, in Colonel Nixons regiment. Concerning Salem Poor, another negro soldier who served in the same battle, Mr. Livermore prints a petition to the Massachu- setts General Court, for a reward, sent in by officers of his regiment, as being due him for behaving like an experienced officer as well as an excellent soldier. Samuel Lawrence, of Groton, at one time commanded a company whose rank and file were all negroes, of whose courage, mili- tary discipline, and fidelity, he always spoke with respect. On one occasion, being out reconnoitring with this company, he got so far in advance of his command that he was surrounded, and on the point of being made prisoner by the enemy. The men, soon dis- covering his peril, rushed to his rescue, and fought with the most determined bravery till that rescue was effectually secured. He never forgot this circumstance, and ever after took especial pains to show kindness and hospi- tality to any individual of the colored race who came near his dwelling. ENLISTMENT OF NEGItOES IN THE STATES. At the commencement of the war, says Mr. Livermore, it appears to have been custom- ary for the free negroes to be enrolled with white citizens in the militia. In many in- stances slaves also stood in the ranks with freemen, but shortly it was ordered that oniy freemen should be admitted to the army, and by various regulations of most of the States it became the rule that a man who had served the country against the enemy was by that act made free. 90 THE ANCIENT WAYS. South Carolina, in 1775, authorized the enrolment of slaves as pioneers and labor- ers, but the selfish slaveholders afterwards revoked this permission, though the best pa- triots in the State urged that negroes should be employed not only as pioneers but as sol- diers. Mr. Livermore remarks Although slavery existed throughout the country, it is a significant fact that the prin- cipal opposition to negro soldiers came from the States where there was the least hearty and efficient support of the principles ot Re- publican Government, and the least ability or disposition to furnish an equal or fair quota of white soldiers. It would ~eem that in this respect at least South Carolina has not changed. South Carolina and Georgia contained so many Tories, at one time, that it was sup- posed the British officers, who elsewhere would, by proclamation, free all negroes join- ing the royal army, might hesitate to med- dle with them in these colonies, lest the kings friends . should suffer thereby. Congress, at the motion of Southern mem- bers, determined, in 1775, that negroes be rejected from the army; but they were there already, and, as would seem, in considerable numbers. General Washington wrote, re- monstrating, in December, 1775; and Mr. Sparks says The resolve was not adhered to. Many black soldiers were in the service dur- ing all stages of the war. General Thomas wrote of negroes in the army in 1775 We have some negroes, bu tllook upon them in general equally serviceable with other men for fatigue; and in action many of them have proved themselves brave. As to another class in the army he has not so good a report I would avoid all reflection, or anything that may tend to give umbrage; but there is in this army from the southward a num- ber called riflemen, who are as indifferent men as I ever served with. These privates are mutinous, and often deserting to the en- emy; unwilling for duty of any kind; ex- ceedingly vicious; and, I think, the army here would be as well without as with them. THE BKITISII GOYEHN0RS rHOCLAMATION. Governor Dunmore issued a proclamation of emancipation in Virginia, early in the war, which created great consternation. But he was a narrow-minded and selfish man; he offered freedom only to such as came to his bannersthe able-bodied men, that isand gave himself no concern about the women and children. The negroes quickly saw that he cared nothing for them, but only for his own ends; and his selfishness found its re- ward in the loss of their confidence; so that, though the slaveholders were alarmed, the proclamation had little other effect. Yet all through the Revolution the threat of freeing the slaves was a terror to the Southern peo. pie. The Virginia planters took care to point out to their slaves that Dunmore prom- ised freedom only to the able-bodied. Mr. Livermore quotes a paper printed in Wil- liamsburg, Virginia, in which this point is made. On the other hand this hope is held out to the slaves as the reward for faithful- ness Can it, then, be supposed that the ne- groes will be better used by the English, who have always encouraged and upheld this slav- ery, than by their present masters, who pity their condition; who wish, in general, to make it as easy and comfortable as possible; and who would, were it in their power, or were they permitted, not only prevent any more negroes from losing their freedom, but restore it to such as have already unhappily lost it! Ia 1776 General Greene reports to Wash- ington that eight hundred negroes were then collected on Staten Island to be formed into a regiment. On the 23d October, 1777, a Hessian officer, who was with Burgoyne at the time of his surrender, wrote in his jour- nal, of our army The negro can take the field, instead of his master; and therefore no regiment is to be seen in which there are not negroes in abundance; among them there are able- bodied, strong, and brave fellows. The capture of the British General Pres- cott, near Newport in 1777, which was hailed with joy through the country, was performed by Colonel Barton; a negro named Prince, who was part of his force, butting in with his head the door of the generals chamber. Negroes were enlisted as substitutes in the army in Connecticut, to the number of some hundreds. The Rhode Island As- sembly, in 1778, authorized the enlistment of slaves, who were to be freed or~ enlisting, 91 92 and receive the same pay, etc., as white sol- diers. The masters were paid for the slaves. And here is a sample of these Rhode Island freedmens quality When Colonel Greene was surprised and murdered, near Points Bridge, New York, on the 14th of May, 1781, his colored sol- diers heroically defended him till they were cut to peices, and the enemy reached him over the dead bodies of his faithful negroes. In 1778 the General Court of Massachu- setts sanctioned the enrolment of negroes, but not in a special corps. In Maryland, John Cadwallader wrote from Annapolis, in 1781 We have resolved to raise immediately seven hundred and fifty negroes, to be in- corporated with the other troops; and a bill is now almost completed. In New York, in the same year, the Legis- lature offered a piece of land to the master for every slave he placed in the army, and freed the slave, if he served faithfully. In South Carolina Henry Laurens and his son Colonel John Laurens strongly urged the enlistment of blacks. Henry wrote in 1779 to Washington Had we arms for three thousand such black men as I could select in Carolina, I should have no doubt of success in driving the British out of Georgia and subduing East Florida, before the end of July. John Laurens received from Congress a commission as lieutenant-colonel, on the day when a report was made to raise negro troops in South Carolina. He wished to command a negro corps. Sir Henry Clin- ton was already using negroes as soldiers, and it is instructive to read in the report to Congress the representations of the South Caroliaa authorities, that they were Unahle to make any effectual efforts with militia, by reason of the great propor- tion of citizens necessary to remain at home to prevent insurrections among the negroes, THE ANCIENT WAYS. and to prevent the desertion of them to the enemy.~~ Will not the Presidents Proclamation once more subject South Carolina to this disability? And if so, is it not an excellent and most advisable war measure? As for the conduct of slaveholders, where they lost their slaves by the act of war, let the example and the words of Jefferson be their model. He wrote of a visit of Lord Cornwallis to his plantation He carried off also about thirty slaves. iliad this been to give them freedom, he would have done right; l)ut it was to consign them to inevitable death from the small-pox and putrid fever, then raging in his camp. This I knew afterwards to be the fate of twenty-seven of them. General Lincoln repeatedly and earnestly implored that the army in the South might be strengthened hy enlisting negroes. Mr. Madison thought it advisable to enlist blacks. Colonel Laurens made continual efforts in this direction, and General Washington wrote these severe words to Laurens, when the lat- ter announced the opposition which had been made in South Carolina and Georgia to the enlistment of blacks. Mr. Livermore says truly that Washington seldom wrote any- thing so severe I must confess that I am not at all as- tonished at the failure of your plan. That spirit of freedom, which, at the commence- ment of this contest, would have gladly sac- rificed everything to the attainment of its object, has long since suhsided, and every selfish passion has taken its place. It is not the public but private interest which influ- ences the generality of mankind; nor caa the Americans any longer boast an excep- tion. Under these circumstances, it would rather have been surprising if you had suc- ceeded; nor will you, I fear, have better suc- cess in Georgia. Let us ponder these lessons from our own history. COUNT GUROWSKI S DIARY. 93 From The N. Y. Evening Post. I take it to be. Count Gurowski discerns, in Diary from March, 1837, to December, 1862. the first place, the lamentable mistakes of By Adam Gurowski. Boston: Lee and the actual Administration. He sees that a Shepard, 1862. gigantic and infamous war against the no Tuis work is a crabbed specimen of au- blest principles of human government and thorship. It says many things that could the most benignant institutionsa war be- only have been learned by a betrayal of gun by slavery, upheld by slavery, and which confidence, and many things founded upon has no meaning or end except slaveryhas the idlest rumor. It prejudges both men and not been managed with any adequate per- things. The humor of it is sometimes that ception of its nature or malignity. Mr. of Thersites, when his thorny tongue lashed Lincoln and Mr. Seward not only long failed the heroes of the camp, and sometimes that to see the inherent and inseparable connec- of Caliban when he cursed the arts of his tion of slavery with the ~var, but they quailed superiors. No one, we think, can much ad- before its power, debilitated as it has been mire its manner, very few will accept its even in the Border States. They approached matterand yet it is a book to be carefully it always shiveringly, and hit it, when they read. Under the rough and prickly burr did hit it, like schoolboys striking a vicious there is a nutritive nut. It contains truths ox, with side blows from which they immedi- which Kthe American people, and above all the ately ran away. On this point Mr. Sewards leaders of the Americaii people, ought to diplomatic correspondence is good testi- ponder. Count Gurowski, the author, is a Polish exile, who had taken part in the wars of his native country for human freedom, and who sought refuge in this land of freedom from the storms of adverse fortune. He is a scholar of some pretensions, a keen observer, a trained thinker, and a writer of consider- able force. His works on the Russian Em- pire and on America are the products of a reflective and philosophic mind. He has studied society thoroughly, and politics ~vith no little discernment and insight. A Radical by conviction and sympathy, he has learned to distrust and despise the acknowledged and revered authorities of the world. His habit- ual tone has become that of the grumbler and cynic: and this tone has been deep- eneci and soured by personal disappoint- ments. A fugitive from the abuses and miseries of the old world, he has not always found the consolation and solace which his imagination led him to e~pect in the new. Thus, without youth or hope, his illusions and ideals dissolved, and his future cheer- less, he has none of the elevation, the con- fidence, anti the kindliness which belong to youth and hope. His judgments are acrid: his outlooks gloomy; and he tries our young and inexperienced men by standards created as much by an overweening self-estimate, as by the sense of truth and justice. We have said, however, that in spite of this superficial repulsiveness, there is truth tinder the skin, and we will state what we mony. Again: in the military management of our affairs the author before us sees an inca- pacity that no sensible man now denies. The Administration kept at the head of its principal armies a captain of engineers who had had no recommend him, who was an utter novice in war, who was singularly unenterprising and slow, and whose delays and failures became so mon- strous in their effects that the whole civil community cried out against him; and yet, in spite of disastrous delays, immense battles lost, calamitous retreats (puerile and bombastic despatches, notorious injus- tice to worthy subordinate generals, an ut- ter want of sympathy in the objects of the war, we will not speak of)persistent diso- bedience of orders, and the remonstrances of nearly every sincere friend of the Admin- istration, he was sedulously retained in the place he was so incompetent to fill. And when at last he was removed, the grand op- portunity for ending the campaign of Mary- land and perhaps of the war, was frustrated and lost by his determined do-nothingism. Under such circumstances, it is not strange that an earnest, impulsive observer, whose soul was absorbed in the success of the war, should break out into maledictions of the authors of the result. But while it was only, natural that he should thus have revolted at the too patent signs of a want of discernment, decision, and firmness in the Administration, it was at the 94 THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. same time unjust not to allow for the pecu- es. lie is moved to perpetual exclamations liar circumstances in the pol4tical opinion of of delight by the sublime enthusiasm, energy, the country which may have produced its and devotion of the American people, and hesitation. It was more particularly unjust it is the fact that a people so confiding, dis- not to acknowledge that at length the Ad- interested, and good should be in any way ministration discovered its mistake and re- betrayed or unworthily guided, which adds formed its policy. By the proclamation of poignancy to his sorrow and bitterness to his September 22, the President has shown that criticisms. he now comprehends the full measure of his duties, and Mr. Seward, in his later corre- spondence with Messrs. Adams, Dayton, and Perry, has given a full and able approval of THE DARK SIDE: THE BRIGHT SIDE: THE its principles. In witness of the same PRACTICABLE SIDE. change, by the removal of McClellan, their To the Editors of the Boston Doily, Advertiser: military errors are in a fair way of being Wt are discovering at last that the South corrected, and the prosecution of the war are a dangerous people. Warlike, audacious, rendered more vigorous than it ever yet needy, unscrupulous, individually disinclined has been. That extraordinary mistakes may and disqualified for industrial pursuits, but have been made, we are, then, ready to ad~ both inclined and qualified for ~var, rapine, mit; but we regard it as only ill-natured and and conquest, their separate existence is in- splenetic to dwell upon those mistakes after compatible with the peace of the world. every effort has been essayed to return to Such men in former times inaugurated the the right path. Our Administration is, for dark ages, and now control the miserable the time being, our government, and when destinies of Spanish America. There is no that government is assailed by traitors, how- safety for civilization, liberty,or human prog- ever much we may deplore its errors, we ress, but in their absolute suppression. are yet bound to ral~y to its support. This suppression can be effected by a In spite of his bitter objurgations against united North, and a war of moderate con- our leading statesmen and military men, tinuance, such as those to which other na- against Lincoln, Seward, Halleck, McClellan, tions have been accustomed to submit. Fremont and innumerable othersfor the History tells of wars of ten years and of unhappy writer is by no means limited or thirty years duration, but our war has not partial in the range of his indignationhe yet lasted two years. The tremendous stru~- sees that there are, nevertheless, some men gle of England against France, beginning in of civic virtue among our statesmen, and 1793, and lasting (with the brief exception some generals of comprehension and skill of the peace of Amiens) till the battle of among our military chieftains. He finds in Waterloo in 1815, occupied more than Stanton, Wade, Welles, Chandler, and many twenty-one years. And this was a war of others, an honest devotion to great civic fluctuating fortunes, of fruitless and ruinous and national ends; and in Banks, Sigel, expenditures, of disheartening failures and Grant, McDowell, and our entire naval ser- defeats,nevertheless manfully carried on vice, the most noble and gallant examples of under different and adverse administrations, patriotic efficiency. with the unwelcome accompaniments of the But the feature of the work which re- press-gang and the tax-gatherer, of grinding deems its defects in other respects, and even imposts and unfathomable debt, until Eng- commends it to admiration, is the stern, un- land came out of it at last, perhaps the most moved, enthusiastic confidence with which wealthy and powerful nation. of the globe. the writer relies upon the energies and We have yet to learn, what every nation purity of the American people. In spite of in Europe has had to learn, that war, if not cons dtutional cynicism, in spite of his disap~ the normal state of mankind, is nevertheless pointments, in spite of his disgust at the an endurable state. It can be indefinitely politicians, and his contempt for leaders, he borne by a nation conscious of its own power, retains his convictions of the essential supe- the justice of its cause, and the slow but riority of the principles o,f self-government, sure decline of its adversary. The South and his ardent reliance on t~ie popular mass- began this contest with abundance of food THE NORTH ANI~ THE SOUTU~. and clothing, with ships and trade, with shall have once more overtaken the demand, flourishing commercial cities and a great cotton will become. a. drug; and if it shall staple which was indispensable to the civi- ever happen that the pacified South shall be lized world. How many of these things, able to return to the cultivation of cotton, have they left to enjoy or to use at the pres- it will only be to render it still more a drug, ent time? Certainly, if the progressive im- exceeding in that character all other kinds poverishment of the next year shall bear its of property except negro property, which due proportion to that of the iast,if there will then riot pay for keeping. is anything reliable in the bodings of their It now seems probable that the future acts own newspapers,if the supp6rting of an in the drama of this war will be better immense army is ruinous to a cramped and adapted to our own character and power, as exhausted country,if drawn battles, or well as to those of the enemy, than they have even victories, shall leave them worse off hitherto been. We shall make it a question than before, then the end of their career of relative endurance, rather than of enor- must be only a question of time. mous invasion and illimitable bloodshed. Meanwhile the North is relatively rich, There is no doubt that a Napoleon or a Pe- progressive, and prosperous. The cities are lissier might take Richmond by the sacrifice busy, the crops abundant, the markets of a hundred thousand men; but the prize prompt and remunerative, the wages of labor would not be worth a hundreth part of the high, the inducements for immigration great, cost. On the other hand, how long can the manufactures, commerce, and agriculture all devastated fields and exhausted granaries of actively and profitably pursued, the taxation Virginia hold out in supporting the army of by no means excessive when compared with locusts which now, in the character of de- that of other nations, and the national debt, fenders, infeats and devours them? Yet if it becomes large enough to reach poster- such an army must be kept up in every ity, sure to constitute a firm, cementing bond Southern State to protect its vulnerable of the Union. points from the inroads which are made at The importance of the South has been comparatively little expense, on every coast overrated. If the Southern States were and river. swallowed up by an earthquake, the world The Fabian policy, which under Washing- would be again supplied with cotton in two ton carried us through the Revolution, will years. Cotton is an annual plant requiring again carry us through this war. The hot for its production only seed, soil, and neces- blood of the South may at timesprove more sity. The seed is always to be had,..the than a match for us in the onset of the bat- soil constitutes a zone round the earth of tle-fleld, but it poorly bears the weary and some seventy degrees,the necessity is fur. consuming influence of passive ;varfare,of nished by starving Europe, and by the high labor wasted on trenches instead of crops, price of cotton, which now niakes it by far of starving families deserted by drafted men, the most profitable crop that can be any- and left to the doubtful fidelity of slaves, where raised, of idle arid marauding soldiers driven by Two years more of vigorous war and hunger to plunder friends and foes,of fac- blockade will cause the world to supply tious and desperate parties, and the deferred itself with cotton, without an earthquake. hope of a military empire founded on the The hundred new places which are now wretchedness of the many for the benefit of struggling to raise cotton, will be five hun- the few. B. dred next year. And when the production THE UNION, AS IT SHALL BE. THE UNION, AS IT SHALL BE. ON the rocks we read the story Of the revolutions grand, Which in ages past and hoary Swept oer mountain, sea, and land; There we trace the mighty stages Of the ~vorlds historic time; And we mark the buried ages By their monuments sublime; And the lesson old earth teaches, By her grand symbolic forms, Is, that she all beauty reaches, Through upheavals, fires, and storms. History points with solemn finger To her records dim and old, And, as thoughtfully we linger, Still the lesson there is told; Through the struggles and the burnings, Through the stern and frantic strife, Through the nations fierce upturmugs, Put they on a fresher life; Then they lass to higher stages Both of beauty and renown; In the conflict of the ages Greatness doth the nations crown. Lo! we feel the wild upheaval Of a nations hidden fires; Right is batt4ing ~vith the Evil, And the smoke to heaven aspires; War, tumultuous and red-lighted, Sweepetb with sirocco blast, And our green young land is blighted, As the tempest whirleth past: Not the deatli-throc of the nation Is this wild and awful hour, Tis its painful transformation To a nobler life of power. As the fossils huge were buried In the massy fblds of rock, So our Saurian crime is hurried To its deatli-throe in the shock; Neath the Unions broad foundations Shall the monster Slavery lie, While the coming generations Ponder oer the mystery: Through long periods of beauty, From its dark transition time, In its march of power and duty, Shall the Union live sublime. Nobler, freer, and more glorious, Shall the future Union be; Oer die despots rod victorious, All the lands its strength shall see; North and South in one dominion, One in freedom evermore. Oer one land on loving pinion Shall the lordly eagle soar; Northern lake, auth Southern harbor, Cotton field, arid prairie wide, Seaside slope, and greenwood arbor, All shall boast the Unions pride. On, through all the stormy trial, God shall bring us on our way, Let us meet the stern denial, Let us watch ttnd wait and pray; Up from all this tribulation We shall rise a nobler laud, And in peerless exaltation Mid the nations envied stand Welcome storm and fire and peril! Fields elysian yet shall rise, Oer our war-worn wastes and sterile, Wrought by freemens sacrifice. D. WILLIAMS. Oxford, N. Y Anti-Slavery Standard VICTORIA REGINA. PEaCHANCE tis well thou wearst a crown; It serves to signalize That ~vomans worth and fair renown Are brightest verities Are not eclipsed by earthly glow To dullest eyes. Thou reignest by a twofold right The aticient right of kings Hath placed upon thy brow a might To rule oer many things Whose glory, saith the Sacred Word, Swift taketh wings. Thou reignest by a larger right The right of ~vomanhiood Hath placed within thiine heart a might To sway mens souls to good Winning for thee in every laud Some holy rood. So speak we that we know full well, And what our land hiath seen, To testify with utter truth The Woman crowns the Queen, And royal is the robe, whose folds Catch heavenly sheen. For when, with inward-bleeding wound, Smitten most grievously, Our country learned, wish eyes astound, How false a friend might be; Thine influence tempered bitter winds That blew oer sea. So thou subduest wide domain Beyond the reach of sword What force of arms could never gain We yield with one accord, And own tIme Right of Kings divine, When in the Lord. II. Daily Advertiser. 96

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The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 972 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 17, 1863 0076 972
The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 972 97-144

THE LIVING AGE. No. 972.17 January, 1863. CONTENTS PAGE. 1. Sippurim . . Frasers Magazine, 99 2. Lady Morgans Memoirs: Mad. de Sta~1; Lord Byron and Lady Caroline Lamb; Mrs. Bona- parte Patterson, etc., etc. Athenceum, 108 3. Bishop Colenso on the Pentateuch, . . Saturday Review, 118 4. Comment thereon by a Correspondent, . . Record, 121 5. Something of Italy. By W. Chambers, . Athenceum, 123 6. English Women of Letters Press, 124 7. Works of Thomas Hood Saturday Review, 126 8. Edinburgh Review on the Supernatural, . 130 9. Which Side should claim the Sympathy of England,Professor Newman, 133 10. Mr. Gladstone and Professor Newman, . . London Review, 134 11. Policy of a Negro Army for the United States,. Spectator, 136 12. The Christian Observer on the United States, Christian Observe 138 13. The United Service Magazines Opinion, . United Service Magazine, 139 14. A Frenchmans Opinion 139 15. Border State Governors Opinion, . 140 16. Mrs. Fremouts Story of the Guard, AT. Y. Evening Post, 140 17. China and Great Britain Spectator, 141 PoETRY.-.--Entire Submission, 98. Millennium in Nursery, 98. Autumnal Sonnet, 98. The Impatience of Hope, 142. The Battle of Charlestown, 142. The Isles of Greece, 142. Give, 143. November, 143. Putting the Cart before the Horse, 143. Overtures from Richmond, 144. To My Wifein Future, 144. SHORT ARTIcLEs.The Canal of Suez, 117. Mr. Maurice and the Church of England, 117. Dont bother me, 125. Whitewashing, 129. Josephine, 129. NEW BOOKS. Au HIsTORIcAL RESEARCH, respecting the Opinions of the Founders of the Republic on Ne- groes as Slaves, as Citizens, and as Soldiers. By George Livermore. [For private Distribu- tion. We wish a cheap edition were printed for sale. See No. 9~.I THE REBELLION RECORD: a Diary of American Events. Edited hy Frauk Moore. Part 25. Containing Portraits of Brig. Gen. Wadsworth, Gen. Bragg, C. A. Ne~v York: G. P. Putnam. Q~ Preparing for publication, by Littell, Son & Co.: Little Flaggs, the Alms-House Foundling. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LIT TELL, SON, & 00., BOSTON. For Sit Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publishers, the Iovize Aes will be punctually for- warded free of postage. Complet~ sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand- somely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. Azr VOLUME may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. Aar NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while fur subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. ENTIRE SUBMISSION.AUTUMNAL SONNET. 98 ENTIRE SUBMISSION GODS ways are not as our our ways, his thoughts are not as ours, He wounds us sore with cruel thorns where we have stooped for flowers; But oh I tis from the oft-pierced heart those precious drops distil, That many a life, else all nablest, with healing balm shall fill Then give, oh, give the flower to those who pray it so may be, But I would choose to have the thorns with thee, dear Lord, with thee. Man judgeth man in ignorance, he seeth but ia part, Our trust is in our Maker, God, who searcheth every heart; And every wrong and every woe, when put be- neath our feet As stepping-stones may help us on to his hi,,h mercy-seat; Then teach us still to smile, 0 Lord, though sharp the stones may be, Remembering that they bring us near to thee, dear Lord, to thee. Mist-veiled and rough the path we tread, eer haunted as we go, With piteous sights of wretchednes and piteous sounds of woe; And eagerly for happiness we look on either side, To find all pleasures Time can give leave us un- satisfied; Oh, make me of those blessed ones, from earths vain troubles free, Whose constant souls rest every hope in thee, dear Lord, in thee. So bitter is the cup of life we fain would drink no more, Oh, let this cup but pass from me! in anguish we implore; But days and months and years roll on, and lo! tis nsked at length, When wes it that our souls put on new majesty and strength I All is revealed. The Marah-draught no longer we ~vould flee, Tis held in wisdom to our lips by thee, dear Lord, by thee. Our nearest and our dearest gogo from us one by one; Where now are those who walked with us, neath youths unclouded sun I Sadder than separation, sadder than death came change, And our once blooming Paradise is now a des- ert strange, Yet in this desolation I ask but faith to see That nothing can divide us now from thee, dear Lord, from thee. Transcript. Fort Schuyler, Dec. 5th, 1862. PICTURE OF THE MILLENNIUM IN THE I~lURSERY. THE Prophets eye was opened The golden time to see, When wolf and lamb together Shall dwell in unity; When calf and royal lion Are led by tiny hand, And none shall hurt or injure Within Gods peaceful laud. Upon thy little table, Thy childish play to me Presents the golden era, Earths blessed jubilee. When from thy ark thou takest Beasts tame as well as wild, And sheep and wolves together Receive thy welcome mild. The lamb, whose leg was broken, Thou playfully dost chide, And givest to the tiger, That he may be its guide. Thou feedest dove and martin With cruiubs of bread and cake; The hungry hear and lion, The same repast do take. A cosybed thou makest The hen and heavy bear; The timid hare and leopard, How soundly they sleep there I Thus on thy little table Thy play reveals to me The sacred, golden future; Peace be, dear child, with thee! FROM THE GJeRMA1~. Good Words. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autumns fire burns slowly along the woods And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed Oer empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt. Dear friends, together in the glimmering eve, Pensive and glad, with tones that recognize The soft, invisible dew on each ones eyes, It may be somewhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory, when distant lies Poor earth, where we were wont to live and grieve. WILLIAM ALuNGH~. 99 From Frasers Magazine. SIPPURIM. IT would not perhaps be easy to find a spot more calculated to excite a profound and melancholy interest than the old burial- ground of the Jews at Prague. After thread- ing the narrow streets and alleys of the Ghetto, the stranger finds himself suddenly standing at the entrance of a spacious but gloomy yard, in which are heaped up the ashes of the countless dead. The air of des- olation, the strange unknown characters on the decaying gravestones, the tangled under- growth of weeds, combine to create an im- pression most sad and solemn. As we stand lost in dreamy reverie, memory slips back to days long past and gone. Imagination peo- ples the space with dim phantoms of a van- ished race. Visions of gray-bearded Rab- bis, of Jewish youths and maidens, of Rachels weeping for their children, arise in swift suc- cession, and The air is full of farewells for the dying. For the dust of centuries lies here. The Jews, indeed, have now for many years been compelled to seek elsewhere a resting-place for their dead. It had become impossible any longer to find vacant room within the crowded, overflowing precincts of the old cemetery. But if we would recall the day when the fresh sod was turned, when the first occupant of this holy ground was car- ried forth to burial, we must look back for almost a thousand years. The early history of the Bohemian Jews is enveloped in profound obscurity. The most learned antiquaries differ as to the ex- act time when they first settled in the coun- try, and all the ancient records have perished in the various conflagrations with which the Jews town has from time to time been vis- ited. Passing over an old tradition, which would refer the foundation of the colony to a still more remote antiquity, we find it stated upon the authority of an old manuscript, for- merly in the library at Oppenheim, that Ly- byssa, who built the city of Prague in the year 750, and was herself accounted a proph- etess, called her son to her upon her death- bed, and thus addressed him, I go home to my forefathers, and before my departure would reveal the future to you. When thy posterity are ruling over my people, an alien, fugitive, oppressed race, which prays to one God alone, will seek a refuge in our forests. I would that they maybe hospitably received, that thy posterity may vouchsafe them pro- tection, for they will bring a blessing on the fields of this country. She died, but the memory of her prophecy survived; and more than a century after her death, when Hosti- wit was on the throne, she appeared to him in a dream, and said, The time has arrived when my prophecy shall be fulfilled. A peo- ple, few in numbers, and oppressed, which prays to one God alone, will appear before the steps of thy throne imploring succor. Receive them hospitably, and graciously ac- cord them refuge and protection. In the year 850, when a horde of Wends poured over Lithuania and Muscovy, chasing away the original inhabitants and establish- ing themselves in their place, a Jewish com- munity was expelled with the rest. For ten years these unfortunates wandered, bouseless and homeless, over the land, and at length ar- rived in Bohemia. Weary and worn out, they implored an audience of Hostiwit. Their request was granted, and they were ordered to send two of their old men as their repre- sentatives. The duke received them gra- ciously, and asked, Who are you P What do you desire P The ambassadors fell on their knees and said, Mighty duke! We come of a race few in numbers, and call our- selves after the founder of our tribe, Abra- ham, Hebrews. We are, with our women and children, but one hundred and fifty souls. We were living peacefully in Muscovy when a potent enemy invaded us, conquered the land, and expelled its inhabitants. We have been wandering without rest over the wide world. The cold heath was our bed, the hard rock our pillow, the blue sky our covering. We are a peaceful people, few in numbers, weak in strength. We follow the law of Moses. We believe in one God alone, who is omniscient, almighty, all-just, and all- merciful, whose glory filleth the whole earth. We make our humble supplication before thee, 0 duke, that it may please thee to allow us to settle here, and to build ourselves houses to dwell in. Your land is broad enough, and your subjects seem faithful and honest. Accord us thy mighty protection, 0 duke, and we will be faithful to thee, and will pray our God to grant glory and victory to thy people. When they had made an end, the duke perceived that this was the 100 people whose arrival had been foretold. He bade theta tarry for two days, when he would give them an answer. After consultation with his nobles and ad- visers, the duke determined to grant the pe- tition of the Jews, and assigned them a dis- trict on the left bank of the Moldau. The Jews faithfully observed their promise; and the most ancient Bohemian chronicler, Cos- mos, relates that the Jews of Prague so pow- erfully assisted Hostiwit when at war with the Germans, with money and forage, that he succeeded in driving them out of Bohe- lain. Thus it would seem that the Jews were established in Bohemia even in heathen times. Under Boriwoj, who was baptized in the year 900 (or, according to Palacky, in the year 871), their numbers had multiplied so exceedingly that the space originally al- lotted to them had become too small. They petitioned, therefore, for another quarter, and the duke conceded to them that district on the right bank of the Moldan which is occupied by the Jews town even to this day. The building of the city was commenced in the year 907. Later on, a large adjoining field was added as a burial-ground. Innumerable traditions, as we can well be- lieve, have grown up and gathered round the sacred soil. Every stone in the graveyard would furnish matter for some tale of thrill- ing horror. No history, indeed, is so tragi- cal and romantic as was that of the Jews, whether considered collectively or individu- ally, during many centuries. Tragical: for they were after all but strangers and sojourn- ers in lands that they might never really call their own. They were despised, persecuted, exposed to every lawless caprice of princes or people. They were cut off from all equal intercourse with their fellow-men, confined within the narrow boundaries of a quarter set apart for them, as though they were so many noisome beasts. Romantic for in proportion to the total want of other inter- ests, to their entire sequestration from all active share in the affairs of the State or community within which they dwelt, was the intensity of the affection, the passion with which they clung to their own brethren, their own law,to the hopes of a future tri- umphant restoration of their race. Sublime indeed was the confidence with which, through all the vicissitudes of fortune, they clung to this hope. Generation after gener- ation might pass away, might drop unheeded into the grave, but the promises would surely never fail; and trust in their fulfilment was as oil and balm in the wounds of many a poor broken-hearted Jew ;a confidence that as God had promised, he would surely per- form, gilded his last moments with a ray of hope, as he breathed out his soul under the tortures of some ruthless Christian baron, or the flames of a Holy Inqtiisition. Take the following short history as an illustration of one of those sudden persecutions to which the Jews were at any moment exposed, and of the heroic courage with which they were encountered. The massacre alluded to was perpetrated within the walls of the Old-new (Alt.neu) synagogue at Prague It happened in the days of Wenceslaus the .Slot1~fu1, that a knight was inflamed with lust for a Jewish maiden. She repelled his shameful proposals with virtuous indigna- tion. The arts of seduction were foiled by the maidens steadfast determination. The knight therefore resolved to attain his pur- p~se by violence. The day of the Feast of the Atonement seemed to him the best suited for the accomplishment of his plan. He knew that Judithso the maiden was named would on that day be staying at home with her blind mother, while all the other members of the family were detained by prayer and pious exercises in the house of God. On the evening of that day Judith was softly praying by the bedside of her slumber- ing mother. The door of her chamber opened, and her detested persecutor entered with sparkling eyes. Unmoved by her prayers, or tears, he already held Judith fast em- braced in his powerful arms, when a lucky chance brought her brother home to inquire after the health of his mother and sister. The terrible unutterable wrath that took possession of him gave the man, naturally powerful, the strength of a giant. He wrenched the sword out of the villains hand, who had only the women to thank that he did not pay for the attempted infamy with the forfeit of his life. With kicks and grim mock- ery the outraged brother drove the dissolute fellow from the house. The knight, exposed to the scorn of the people, who had assem- bled in considerable numbers, swore a bloody, deadly revenge against the Jews. He kept his word. Long ago expelled from the ranks of the nobility on account of his worthless behavior, the knight had cultivated a connection with some discont~~nted idle burghers Qf the city, 101 and these he hoped to make the ministers of his cruel vengeance. Some short time after- wards he put himself at the head of a mob, wrought up by frivolous l)retexts to a frenzy of fanaticism, to murder the Jews, and plun- der their town. The first who, frightened out of their peaceful dwellings, went to meet the robbers, were cut down. Determined as they were, the rest were overwhelmed by a superior force, and being unarmed were com- pelled, after 6. heroic struggle, to take refuge in the synagogue, which was already crowded with old men, women, and children. Mighty blows sounded heavily on the closed doors of the synagogue. Open, and give your- selves up! yelled the knight from outside. After a short pause of consultation answer was made, that the Jews would deliver over their property to the mutineers, would draw up a deed of gift of it, and only reserve for themselves absolute necessaries. They also promised to make no complaint to king or states, in exchange for which the honor of their wives and daughters was to be pre- served, and no one compelled to change his religion. It is not your business, a voice from outside again resounded; it is ours to dic- tate conditions. If you desire life and not a wretched death, open at once, and abjure your faith. Ii grant but short delay for re- flection: let the time of grace pass by, and you are one and all given over to destruc- tion. No answer followed. Further resistance could not be thought of; and a hope that the king would at length put a stop to this unheard-of, unparalleled iniquity, grew every moment less. The battle in the streetif the desperate resistance of a few unarmed men against an armed superior force could be called by that namehad lasted long enough to have enabled King Wenceslaus to send to their assistance. As no help came, the Jews were at length constrained to admit that he did not trouble himself about their fate. A silence as of death reigned in the synagogue. Only here and there a sup- pressed sobbing, only here and there an in- fant at the breast that reminded its mother of her sweetest duty, was heard. Once more the voice of the knight thundered, rough and wild, I demand of you for the last time, which do you choose, the new faith or death? There was a momentary silence. Thea a cry of thousands, Death! broke with a dull sound against the roof of the house that was consecrated to God. The rioters now began to demolish the doors with axes and hatchets. But the besieged in their deadly agony, lifted up their voice in wonderful accord, and sang in solemn chorus the glorious verse of the Psalmist: Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not fear the crafty wiliness of the evil- doer; ~or Thou art with me! Thou art in all my ways; The firm staff of faith is my confidence! The aged rabbi had sunk upon his knees in prayer upon the steps that led up to the tabernacle. Lord! he implored, I suffer infinite sorrow. Yet, oh, that we might fall into the hands of the Lord, for his mercy is boundlessonly not into the hand of man Ah! we know not what to do: to Thee alone we look for succor. Call to remembrance Thy mercy and gracious favor which has been ever of old. In anger be mindful of compassion; let Thy goodness be showed unto us, as we do put our trust in Thee. But God at this season did not succor his children; in his unsearchable counsels it was otherwise ordained. The first door was burst open ; the mob pressed into the vesti- bule of Gods house. A single frail barrier separated oppressed and oppressors. Lord, cried the rabbi, in accents of deepest despair, Lord, grant that the walls of this house, in which we and our fathers with songs of praise have glorified and blessed thy name, that the walls of this thy temple may fall to- gether, and that we may find a grave under its ruins ! But let us not fall alive into the hands of the barbarians, let not our wives and maidens become a living prey to the wicked. No, now exclaimed a power- ful voice, that shall they not, rabbi. Wives and maidens, do you prefer death at the hands of your fathers, husbands, brothers, death at your own hands, to shame and dis- honor? Would you appear pure and inno- cent before the throne of the Almighty, in- stead of falling liviag victims into the hands of these bloodthirsty, inhuman men outside, would you? Speak: time presses. And again resounded from a hundred womens lips, Rather death than dishonor. His lovely blooming wife pressed up close to the side of the man who had thus spoken, her baby at her breast. Let me be the first; let me receive my death at thy loved hands, she murmured, softly. With the deepest emotion of which a human soul is capable, he clasped her to his breast. It must be done quickly, he said, with hollow, trembling voice. The separation must be~ speedy. I never thought to part from you thus. Lord, most merciful, forgive us; we do it for thy holy names sake alone. Art thou ready? I am, she said; let me only oncemore, but once more, for the last time, kiss my sweet, my innocent child. God bless thee, poor orphan; God suffer thee to find com 102 SIPPURIM.~~ passion in the eyes of our murderers. . . . bodies of their mothers. Blood flowed in God help thee! We, dear friend, we part streams. One boy alone was later on dragged but for a short time; thou wilt follow me still living from under the heaps of dead. As soon, thou true-hearted. With the t~st they approached the tabernacle, in order to infinite sorrow that can thrill a mans heart, inflict the death-stroke on the rabbi, who the husband pressed a fervent parting kiss, was kneeling on the steps before it, they a last touch of the hand upon the loved in- found him lifeless, his head turned upwards fant, that absolutely refused to leave its in the direction of the East, a soft smile mother, and her bared and heaving breast. upon his deathlike features. Death had an- One stroke of the knife, and a jet of blood ticipated them. His pure soul had passed sprinkled the childs face, and spouted up away in fervent prayer. against the walls of Gods house. The wo- The mob surveyed the work that had man sank with a cry of Hear, 0 Israel, the been accomplished; and now that the thirst Everlasting, our God is God alone! and fell for blood was stilled, shrunk in terror before lifeless to the ground. the crime that had been perpetrated. The All the other women, including Judith, tabernacle remained untouched, the house followed the brave and gallant example. of God unplundered. Discharging oaths Many died by their own hands, many received and curses on the knight, their ringleader, their death-strokes from their husbands, fa- the wild troop dispersed in apprehensive awe thers, brothers; but all of them without a of the divine and human judge. murmur, silent and resigned to Gods will. They had to tear away tender children, who, Environed by perils, holding his posses- weeping and wringing their hands, climbed sions, whether small or great, by the most on to their fathers knees, and piteously im- frail and precarious of tenures, the momen- plored them not to hurt their mothers. It tary good-will or sufferance of the ruler, de- was a scene horrible and heart-rending; a voted to the cultivation of all domestic vir- scene than which the history of the Jews, the history of mankind, knows none more ago- tues, to the study of the Talmud, to trading nizing. It was accomplished: no woman with, perchance to spoiling, the Egyptians might fall alive into the hands of the perse- such was very commonly the life of a eutors. The last death sigh was breathed, Jew during the Middle Ages. Brighter and the few stout men, who had desired to times for them and all of us have since defend the inner door only till then, stepped arisen. Intolerance, when it seeks to real- backward. A fearful blow, and the door, ize itself by cruelty and persecution, is no the last bulwark, fell in, sending clouds of dust whirling over it. The knight, bran- longer endured. But a modern Jew no dished battle-axe in hand, stood on the steps doubt looks back upon the long, dark pen- that led up into the house of pray6r. His ods of protracted persecution with the same countenance was disfigured by fury. Behind bitter feelings as a Christian does to the him crowded an immeasurable mass of peo- shorter early persecutions of the Church, plc, armed with spits and clubs and iron and studies his Acts Judceorum with the flails. Yield your women and children! same reverence that we might feel towards he shouted, in a voice of thunder, at length the Acts Sanctorum or Acts .2Vliartyrum. betraying his real intention, and abjure A very curious collection of what we may your faith. Look at these blood-dripping, steaming thus be justified in denominating the Acts corpses, said a man who stood nearest tQ the fudceorum, has recently been published in door; they are women and maidens: they Germany, under the title of Sippurim, by have all preferred death to dishonor. . . . Dr. Wolf Paseheles, himself a learned Jew Do you think that we men fear death at thy of Prague. To this work we are indebted hands and the hands of thy murderous asso- ciates? Murder me, monster, and be ac- for the eloquent narrative which we have cursed hei~e and hereafter, in this world and already given, and for most of the facts re- the next, forever and ever! A moment lating to the advent of the Jews in Bohemia. afterwards, the bold speaker lay on the It contains a large and varied store of pop- ground weltering in his blood. At sight of ular traditions, mythic legends, chronicles, the countless corpses of the women, the memorials, and biographies of the renowned beastly rage of the populace, that saw itself Jews who have flourished in ancient times, thus cheated of the best part of its booty, mounted to absolute madness. Hyicnas but especially of those who dwelt at Prague drunk with blood would have behaved with during the Middle Ages. The stories are greater humanity. Not a life was spared; of very various merit and interest; but, and even infants were slaughtered over the taken together, afford considerable insight SIPPURIM.~~ 103 into the history, life, feelings, and customs of the Jewish people. In time, they range from Solomon to Napoleon; in character, from the most fantastic Arabian-Night fic- tion to the gravest chronicle; in style, from the wildest expression of passionate elo- quence to the simplicity of the humblest narrative; and make up as a whole one of the most entertaining story-books that it has ever been our good fortune to fall in with. It is difficult by any example to give & fair idea of the attractive and varied na- ture of the work. The most striking story, Gabriel, from which the preceding ac- count of the massacre is taken, is too long for insertion, and too intricate to be com- prehensible in any abridged form. The fol- lowing specimens may, however, perhaps serve as some, if not the best, proof of the wonderful picturesqueness and vigor of the language in which these tales are told, while they will at the same time afford a further illustration of that precarious condition of the Jewish societies in the Middle Ages to which we have alluded, and will show how, in seasons apparently most prosperous and peaceful, the Jews were always liable to the most calamitous vicissitudes of fortune. The events which we are about to relate are believed to have occurred in the reign of the Emperor Ferdinand I., and the narra- tive of them will be found in this compila- tion, under the title of Der Retter, the Preserver.~~ lit was the eve of the first day of the Passover, in the year 1559. Afternoon service was just over, and large crowds of people streamed out of the synagogues in the Jews town at Prague, and hurried home to perform the other religious offices prescribed for thnt night. Gradually the streets became empty, but from the windows came a friendly light and the loud voices of worshippers who were singing devout hymns of praise, or saying their prayers. One house was especially conspicuous for the blinding beams of light that shone from its windows, and fell upon the street. It was the house of Reb. Mordechal Cohen Zemach. Mordechai was the only son of Heb. Gerson, a wealthy goldsmith, and had in his earliest youth evinced signs of ex- traordinary talent. His father had given him an excellent education, and had sown and who had been saved by it from shame upon a fruitful soil. Till far en in his child- and dishonor, had now become the private hood, the life of Mordechai had been calm and prosperous. Suddenly, however, cir.. cumstances changed. Reb. Gerson, by a rapid succession of unmerited misfortunes, lost the whole of his property, and found himself unable to meet the liabilities which he had incurred. Sorrow at the loss of his good name stretched the honest mati on a sick-bed, from which he never rose again. At the age of seventeen, Mordechai was left an orphan. He was alone in the world, for his mother he had lost when a child. His first resolution, when the first stupor of grief had passed, was to restore the honored name of his departed father. He took to business, and pursued it with unwearied assiduity; so that scarce five years had elapsed before he had paid off all his fa- thers creditors. In the mean time, he had fallen in love with a maiden, the daughter of his neighbor; but he had nothing to offer her. He was poor; he had sacrificed the rewards of his industry to the sacred mem- ory of his father. Suddenly, however, she too became an orphan, and as a royal edict soon afterwards expelled the Jews from Bo.. hemia, and the poor girl did not know whither to turn her steps, Mordechai pro- posed to her to become the partner of his fate. Bela followed him, after they had been married, to Poland, where most of the exiles found a refuge. Eight years afterwards, in the year 1551, King Ferdinand I. recalled the Jews home. Among those who pined for the land of their birth and returned to Prague were Reb. Mordechai and his wife. He again established himself in Prague. His vast knowledge won him the highest esteem and regard; his noble heart the love of his neighbors. By industry and economy, too, during his residence in Poland, he had succeeded in acquiring a property by no means inconsiderable for that age. About a year after his return from Poland, lieb. Mordechai, with a full and clear conscious- ness of what he was doing, had sacrificed all this wealth for the preservation of a person entirely unknown to him, of whose very name he was ignorant. For the occa- sion of this sacrifice, we must refer to the beautiful description in the text. For our present purpose, it will suffice to say, that the person in whose favor it had been made, 104 secretary of the emperor, who placed in him the most unbounded confidence. We re- turn to the night of the Passover. Reb. Mordechni and his assembled family were celebrating the festival. The evening meal was just over, and all were uniting in one great hymn of praise, when a sudden knock was heard at the door, and a stranger craved an instant interview with the master of the house. As soon as the stranger was alone with iReb. Mordechai, he flung off his hat and cloak, and threw himself into his arms. It was the young man whose honor and life he had once saved. The young man came to warn Ileb. Mordechni of a calamity which impended over the Jews, and to point out the only way in which it might be a~verted. The emperor had vowed in a dream that he would expel the Jews from Bohemia, and was resolved to perform what he had sworn. Except his secretary, none, not even his most confiden- tial ministers, as yet knew anything of the imperial resolution. It was necessary, there- fore, that the most inviolable secrecy should be preserved as to the means by which the information had been obtained, and as to the mode in which an attempt was to be made to countermine the intended cruelty. After an interview of many hours, the sec- retary took leave. Mordechni accompanied him to the gate of the Jews town, which i~as opened. The two men pressed each others hand in sign of leave-taking, and after a few last words of whispered counsel, the secretary stepped through the gate, and walked on to the hostelry. Mordechni lifted his glowing face to the heavens. Lord of the world, he cried, thou art all-merciful, all-knowing, almighty. Why, then, should we despair? Can it be thy pleasure that thy children should be driven into adversity? They wish to ban- ish, expel us. Why? By what right? They say that we are strangers in this land, in ibis beautiful Bohemia. Has not God made the whole world, and are not we too his children? We are strangers, and yet the graves of our fathers lie in this land. We are strangers, and yet we have already for centuries suffered and endured in this country. We are strangers, yet we dwell as long in the land as its other inhabitants. We are strangers; where, then, is our fatherland? Can men exist without a fatherland? No, no; and yet the Jew has nothing, nothing on this vast, spacious earth that he can call his ownnot the clod on which be rests his head, weary of this life. He cannot bequeath his grave to his son, for he does not even know whether the weeping orphan will be driven from his grave, as himself had been chased away from the grave of his father. Mordechai might have remained standing still longer in the street, lost in these thoughts. But the atmosphere was sud- denly agitated hy a sharp gust of wind. Then a warm breeze of spring came gently whispering through the air. The fragrant breath of the wind which fanned Mordechais hot face roused him from his dreams. It seemed to him as though it were a morning salutation from the Father of all men to his sons, which proclaimed Peace, peace to far and nearto all my children, peace! ~ Mordechni then proceeded to the house of the chief rabbi, and imparted to him the secret which he had learnt that night, and also his resolution instantly at break of day to set off for Vienna, that he might there en- deavor to prevent the impending calamity in the manner which had been suggested to him by the secretary. The chief rabbi ap- proved the plan, and ]3ieh. Mordechai re- turned home in order to get ready for the journey and to bid his family farewell. As morning dawned on the first day of the Pass- over, Mordechai passed through the Wis~ cherheder gate, vaulted upon a horse that stood ready saddled outside, pressed his spurs into its flanks, and fled swift as light- ning on the road leading to Vienna. After morning service on the same day, the chief rabbi invited the leading members of the community to a secret meeting, and informed them of what had taken place namely, that Mordechni had the night be- fore received from a sure source the unex- pected intelligence that the emperor intended to banish all the Jews from Prague and Bo- hemia, and had hurried off to Vienna to pur- sue the course pointed out by his secret in- formant as the only one which might possibly effect a change in the emperors sentiments. The rabbi impressed upon the meeting that Reb. Mordechni, who, by his rare intellec- tual powers, his learning, and especially by the fact that he must be favored by some high personage, since he had before any one else been put in possession of so important a secret, was without doubt the fittest rep- resentative of their community; at any rate, that it would be best quietly to await the end of the affair, and on no account to allow the inauspicious tidings to be too soon noised abroad among the people. It was not, therefore, till about midway between Easter and Pentecost that dark ru- mors began to spread abroad in the Jewish community of Prague about some terrible news ~vhich the chief rabbi had communi- cated to the leading persons of the society on the first day of the Passover. The nar- row circle, indeed, who had heard it from the rabbis own mouth preserved the profound- est silence; but several Jews, who carried their wares from house to house in other quarters of the city, were recommended to sell at a moderate price, as they were soon to be sent into banishment, and would then be unable to sell anything. At first the poor Jews paid no attention to what they heard, and looked upon it as mere mockery, to be patiently endured; but by degrees they were satisfied that it was no joke, and that in very truth tidings had arrived from Vienna that, in pursuance of an imperial decree, all the Jews were to leave Bohemia. Presently nothing was talked about but this impend- ing calamity. The absence of Heb. Morde- chai Cohen had already been observed, but it was not yet known that his journey had been undertaken for the common weal. Now, however, the chief rabbi and authorities as- sured every one that they had long been in- formed of the circumstance, that they would make every effort in their power, and that Ileb. Mordechai had gone to Vienna as their advo- cate. This knowledge had at first a soothing effect. But their hopes, alas, soon became clouded. No letter had arrived from Mor- dechai. Information at length was received, and they learnt that Mordechai had left Vi- enna. Whither he had since betaken him- self, what had been the result of his repre- sentations of all this the community was absolutely ignorant. At a full meeting it was proposed that a deputation should be sent to Vienna in order to lay their right- eous cause at the foot of the throne. The majority voted with the proposer, but the chief rabbi opposed the measure. If salva- tion, he said, is possibleif any human being is able to induce the emperors maj- esty to recede from a resolution that he has formed it is Itch. Mordechai Cohen. I was, moreover, he added, perfectly satis- fied by Reb. Mordechal that there was but 105 one way of salvation, and that he will try. If he fails, all is irreparably lost. The chief rabbi at Prague had ever ex- ercised the greatest influence over his com- munity. The assembly besides perceived that he had deeper insight into the matter than themselves. Nothing, therefore, remained for them but to confide in his wisdom and experience, to let him have his way, and to await the end in sorrow. It was a painful situation. In order to appreciate its full sig- nificance, a little more light must be thrown upon it. The idea of banishment has in re- cent times, owing to the large number of German emigrants who send themselves, so to say, into voluntary exile, lost so much of its original horror that we are very likely to be misled in our conception of it. Yet how different was the situation of a banished Jew in the Middle Ages from that of an emigrant in these days! The latter voluntarily for- sakes his home after he has realized his im- movable property. He is protected by the government, and hopes to better his condi- tion. He has found a new country, where he is hospitably received. And if he feels a longing for his fatherland, if he is grown rich and prosperous in the distant country, and would return back again, if he would die at home, be buried in the grave of his forefa- thers; then the ship carries him back, he is againwelcomed home, again becomes his coun- trys child; he has two homes. The Jew, on the contrary, was compelled to tear himself with bleeding heart from the spot which he had perhaps for centuries called home. The Jew was cast forth poor and wretched, for even the wealthiest was impoverished by exile. His houses became worthless; for who would purchase a property that was from the neces- sity of the case to become shortly without an owner P The stored-up wares also which could not be carried with them in their wan- derings in their search for a place of refuge, became valueless to the proprietors, espe- cially as so large a number of Jewish mer- chants could not dispose of their effects at one and the same time. The debts due to them in the country could not be levied. The banished Jew of the Middle Ages was without protection, for the home government refused him its l)rotection, its sanction. The banished Jew of the Middle Ages could not but fear that his gray-haired parents, his wife, his tender children, would perish under the unwonted fatigues of the journey; for how could he tell how long it might not be P The banished Jew of the Middle Ages was constrained to tear himself from the arms of his weeping betrothed when their roads sep- arated, and knew not whether he should ever srrruaiivr. see her again in this life. The banished Jew of the Middle Ages might die in a remote foreign land of longing for the graves of his loved ones, might die, but not return. The Jews were soon, however, to be celieved from this tormenting state of un- ~ertainty, hut only to obtain the most entire assurance of their misfortune. Some days after Pentecost, the imperial edict reached Prague, and was proclaimed on the same lay in the Jews town by the royal governor. Thus it ran: The Jews must leave Prague in eight days, the country in four weeks. At dawn on the day fixed, morning ser- vice was celebrated in all the synagogues. [n the synagogue the chief rabbi officiated. As soon as the suns first raypierced through the narrow windows of the synagogue the service was commenced. The temple was overflowing with worshippers. Many of the pious devotees had sunk on their knees, and lifted their clasped hands to heaven. The profound touching agony to be obliged to quit the holy spot forever had mastered the whole assembly, and had driven for a short time all care for the future out of their hearts. The prayers abounded in wonder- fully striking passages, and soon nothing was heard in the entire building but the heart-rending sobs of the congregation. .Lhe service came to an end. The chief rabbi stood before the holy tabernacle to take leave of that consecrated place, which he had so often trodden, to take leave of his beloved congregation, and to strengthen and refresh them with the words of holy Scripture for the dark, uncertain future which was approaching. Friends and brethren, he began. The words died away on his trembling lipsa boundless emotion took possession of him. In vain he endeav- ored to recover himself, his quivering lips refused to utter a word. A pause of pro- foundest silence for some minutes ensued. The rabbi kissed the veil of the holy taber- nacle, opened the sacred ark of the covenant, and took a roll of the law out of it. The head overseers and the warders of the syna- gogue followed him unbidden. Then came the principal Talmudists, until all the rolls of the law had been removed. The rabbi muttered a few more words of prayer in a low voice; then all left the synagogue in tears. The chief rabbi was the last but one; the head overseer of the community the last to retire from it. As the latter came out of the synagogue he locked the gates, and handed the keys to the rabbi. Both of them desired to speak, as might be seen from the nervous twitching of their lips; but both were silent. The last priest cannot have quitted the temple on Sions Hill with a heart more penetrated by grief. Once more, as though he could not tear himself away, the rabbi kissed the lintels of the tem- ple; then the procession betook itself to his residence, there to deposit the rolls of the law till the moment of departure arrived. After that, the rabbi went to the burial- ground. The whole community, impelled by one and the same noble feeling, had here assembled to take leave of those who had gone to their long home before them, of the graves of their dead. No sound of sor- row disturbed the sacred quiet of the spot. Naught could be seen but a kneeling multi- tude, pale faces, and graves bedewed with tears. Bela, among the rest, Mordechais wife, was kneeling on the grave of her fa- ther, while hot tears trickled down her face. A twofold grief divided her heart. Where was Mordechai, her husband, the prop of her life? Gradually the vast burial-ground was deserted. Each one had still preparation to make for the long, weary journey. At eleven oclock in the forenoon a gate of the Jews town was thrown open through which they were all to defile. On the square fac- ing the Jews town two regiments of infan- try and some troops of cavalry were drawn up. A vast multitude had assembled to as- sist at the strange spectacle. The viceroy had commissioned a superior officer to see to the execution of the decree. Each fain.. ily on its departure was ordered to give sat- isfactory proof that it had satisfied all claims of the royal treasury, and to declare by which gate of the city it wished to leave. The confused stir in the Jews town offered a melancholy sight. Before many doors stood a small cart, drawn by a lean hack. They were intended to convey out of the country the old and sick who could not travel on foot. A group was standing before every door. Men with a wanderers staff in their hands, a bundle which contained all their transportable wealth on their backs. Wo- men with children at their breasts. At half- past eleven the officer in command ordered a trumpeter to ride through the streets and proclaim that they had only half an hour more, and that every one must make ready to depart. Friends and relatives now bade one another farewell in open street. A warm pressure of the hand, a brotherly kiss, and then they would set out. The chief rabbi had stationed himself at the gate of exit to comfort and bless the departing. At length the word of command rung out. Swords clashed as they were drawn from the sheath. The infantry ranged itself in line. The clock in the old ilathaus began to strike twelve. The rabbi whispered words of en- couragement and resignation into the ears of those who were to be the first to leave 106 107 the Jews town. Not a breath was audible; gogue! to the synagogue! all joyously a funereal silence prevailed. The clock shouted, and the whole multitude followed struck one, two, three, four, five, up to the rabbi to Gods temple with hearts over- twelve, flowing with gratitude. * * * * * At the last stroke the sound of horses For the mode in which this salvation was hoofs was heard, all eyes were turned in the wrought, for the details of Mordechais swift direction of the Jesuits College. A horse man was flying towards the Jews town: journey to Vienna, to Rome, where he ob- the smoking steed was covered with foam tamed letters from the Pope absolving the and blood, the riders face was convulse Jemp eror from the rash vow made in his and pale. He waved a roll of parchment in dreams, we can but refer to the story. Mor his hand, and cried, dechai Cohen has long been gathered to his Grace . . . in the emperors name. I fathers his tomb is overgrown by luxuriant In front of the commandant he drew moss, but his memory still survives in the. rein, and as he handed him the parchment grateful recollection of his people. sunk swooning to the ground. The hors~ Attracted by the strange interest that still reeled, staggered, and fell at his side. At the same moment, an imperial offi- cleaves to the old burial-ground at Prague, cer, accompanied by a mounted trumpeter, we have directed our attention mainly to galloped up at full speed. He waved a white such stories as relate to the history of the flag, and cried, I confirm it, in the name Bohemian Jews. But there is scarcely a of his Apostolic Majesty! Grace! country in Europe which is not the scene of When the commanding officer perceived some curious history or adventure contained the imperial signet, he uncovered his head in this collection. We might have stood in and read the revocation of the edict. This was all the work of a minute. At the same the streets of Frankfort and watched the instant a loud scream was heard, Mor-de- furious march of the Flagellants, who chail . . . Father! . . . and Bela, with atoned, as they believed, for their sins her children, forced her way through the against God by plundering and murdering crowd up to her husband, their father. The the Israelites. We might have placed our multitude assembled hefore the Jews town selves in the Mahometan city of Cordova, had taken the warmest interest in the events and read the wild traditions which group of the morning. The unexpectedly fortu nate issue excited the most joyful sympathy, themselves round the name of Maimonides and amidst the flourish of trumpets a thun- the second Moses, as he was called, and dering shout was raised, Long live the em- most learned of medimval Jews. Or, for- peror! Long live Ferdinand the First! saking historic ground, we might have What passed in the hearts of men de- plunged into the regions of absolute fiction, livered from so great a peril cannot he de- scribed, cannot be conceived, can only be and studied the miraculous powers which sympathized with by one who, threatened by were imparted by the possession of the won- the same danger, has obtained the same de- der-working seal of King Solomon. What- liverance. Every one now pressed round ever portion of this work, however, may be the unconscious Mordechai. Those nearest selected for more particular consideration, to him kissed the hem of his raiment. He whether that which deals with history, myth, was borne in triumphal procession to his or legend, much curious information may house. Arrived there, the chief rabbi said, undoubtedly be gleaned respecting Jewish We will now leave IReb. Mordechai to the care of his family; but before we ourselves customs, manners, and opinions; and with do anything else, let us go into the syna- this view, independently of any interest that gogue and render thanks to the Lord for this attaches to it as a mere story-book, ~Sippu- unexpected salvation. Yes, to the syna- rim will well repay an attentive perusal. LADY MORGAN7S MEMOIRS. From The Athennum. Lady Morgans Memoirs: Autobiography, Diaries, and Correspondence. 2 vols. Allen & Co. ONCE upon a time is the date of Sydney Owensons birth, the day however, being Christmas-Day. Her grandmother was an Irish beauty of the Crofton family, who was won by a handsome young farmer, Walter MacOwen, and suffered disparagement in consequence. Of this marriage came Rich- ard MacOwen, or Owenson, who had the ill luck to possess an agreeable voice and to be- gin life under the auspices of a patron. But for these, perhaps, Mr. Owenson would not have been driven to the stage. Be this as it may, the poor player contrived to win favor in the sight of Miss Hill, a young lady of Shropshire and of Calvinistic principles; of whom were horn two daughters, Sydney and Olivia once upon a time. The Irish home, with a rollicking Irish actor and wine-merchant as father, and a seriously thinking English mother at the head of it, was full of light and shade,the latter abounding, increasing, and ultimately becoming permanent. As soon as the pres- ent truths and future prospects of that life made themselves apparent to Sydney Owen- son, her abiding characteristic took at once a rapid development. That chaincteristic was independence,a readiness, or rather a resolution, to eat no bread she did not earn, and to rise above difficulties by her own spirit, labor, and perseverance. Self-reliance was almost invariably her rule. Other and higher reliance she may have had, being the daughter of a sincerely religious mother; but ill-health, despondency and disappointment weakened the poor ladys energies. On the other hand, Sydney was not likely to take very serious impressions from her fathers visitors, albeit the Rev. Charles Mackim a nephew of the actor of that name, was among them. This reverend gentleman was a jolly fellow in jolly days, and was deprived of his vocation, for playing his congregation out on the bagpipes, fingered and blown by himself as he stood in his pulpit. There was a scrambling sort of education; but in that, or in any other scramble, Syd- ney, more resolute than her gentle sister Olivia, was sure to get her share. Quick, intelligent, greedy after knowledge, idle only by caprice, and eager, not merely to equal, but to surpass others, Sydney Owenson made rapid progress. The shadows about her home hardly affected that determined and ambitious spirittill, indeed, illness afflicted her mother. The condition of the latter gave no cause for immediate alarm. There was but an invalid lady up-stairs, and a sorrowing but hopeful father and daughters in an adjacent room, at the thres- hold of which there suddenly apl)eared one day the faithful Irish maid, bearing in her hand the ladys wedding-ringan intima- tion, as she silently held it out to the hus- band, that he was a widower and his daugh- ters motherless. Thereupon, there was a shipwreck of home. The father, more helpless and luck. less than ever, struggled feebly with misfor- tune, and grew daily weaker in the conflict. Of all lives he led the most terriblethat of an embarrassed man who contemplates his embarrassments with despair, feints rather than fights with them, and yet whose stroke, unlike that of Job, is less than his cry of anguish under it. There was now and then some sunshine with the shade, but there was no real improvement in the con- dition of the family. This pro~d girl Syd- ney calmly looked circumstances in the face. She had held fellowship and friendship, young as she was, with the best society Dublin then afforded; she was determined to turn that advantage and her own accom- plishments to good account; and being proud, as we have said, and not in spite of her pride, as it may have seemed to some, she went out~~ as a governess. Her sister subsequently adopted the same honorable, but not always agreeable, course, from which she was rescued by a gallant and orthy husband, who offered a home to Sydney as well as to the father, to lighten whose encum- brances she had taken service. This offer was characteristically and gayly declined; Sydney would only eat the bread she fairly earned. For the most part, it was funnily and froliesomely earned, though the office was seriously undertaken and conscientiously ex- ercised. It was first exercised in the family of the Featherstones of Bracklin. On the night of her departure thither by the mail, she was detained so long at a little bcd dadieu that she had to perform the journey in a muslin frock and pink silk stockings 108 LADY ~ MEMOIRS. and shoes, in which at an early hour of the next morning she presented herself to the astonished family, looking very much like a ballet-girl, and without her luggage, which had been forgotten in the confusion. She was clever enough under these adverse aus- pices, to create a good impression by a well-delivered account of her misadventure, which excited the hilarity of all but the se- rious master of the family, who was about to entrust his daughters to this gleesome, wild, Irish girl; but even he melted into admira- tion of the strange and bright little creature, in the evening, when she assailed him with the witchcraft of a pure and tuneful Irish song. She perplexed the good man, how- ever, considerably. What wa~ he to think of a governess who rode out of a morning with the water-cask boy, seated on the hogs- head, and who returned to breakfast with her skirts as moist as a mermaids P Mr. Featherstone declared his intention of writ- ing to my father; dear Mrs. Featherstone championed me to the utmost, and an Irish song, with Barbara Allen, in the evening, settled the account, and the next day I was taken back to favor on the promise to be more circumspect for the future. Her fathers Irish pride, she remarks, rose in revolt against her position in Mrs. Featherstones family. lie wrote me word that he hoped soon to place me under the protection of some of my Irish cousins; but, she adds, characteristically, I hated the idea of Connaught cousins, and my pride re- volted from idle dependence. This was no mere affectation. ladependence, honest labor and much of it, with some eccentricities of genius, and a resolution never to let anything in the world ruffle her temper, gave her happi- ness and self-respect, and secured for her the permanent friendship of all who were worthy to be called her friends. She was already, if not a poetess, a writer of rhymes, and before she had bidden adieu to the Featherstones a Dublin bookseller had published her first novel, St. Claire, with violations of French which must have sensibly touched her heart- strings, but which were left uncorrected in the reprint in England. All she obtained for it consisted in four copies of the work and the fame awarded to her by a German translation, the biographical notice prefixed to which announced that the young author- ess had strangled herself with a cambric pocket-handkerchief, in a fit of despair and disappointed love. Between her first and second engagements as a governess, Sydney seems to have lived impatiently at home, and was only fairly happy when with the Crawfords in the North of Ireland, with leisure enough to enable her to ~vrite The Novice of St. Dominic and The Wild Irish Girl, the latter of which works first made her famous. With the manuscript of The Novice she made the journey from Dublin to London alone; no pleasant enterprise in 1805, when the Con- way and the Meaai Straits wereyetunbridged, and the road by Penmaenmawr was as wild and difficult as in Dr. Johnsons days. When the coach drove into the Swan with Two Necks, in Lad Lane, she had not a notion where to go or what to do next, and sat down upon her small trunk in the yard, to wait until the bustle of arrival should have a little subsided. Overcome with fatigue and anxiety, she fell fast asleep. Such was the first appearance in London of Sydney, Lady Morgan; and artists are not likely to forget a circumstance so picturesque. Then began her struggle with, and her conquest over, publishers; or we might rather say, then publishers began to struggle for her, while she stood laughing by, and adopted the victor. She was unmoved either by their flattery, cajolery, impudence, or statis- tics. She soon learned to know her value, and had sense and firmness enough not to allow it to be depreciated; the odds were against her, for she had astute, business-like men to deal with, and she had to rely only on herself. In her very first difficulty she stood alone. An old Irish manager, indeed, had given her a letter of introduction to Mrs. Iachbald at Turaham Green; but that lady declined to receive her. Mrs. Inchbald had once been l~ospitable to another authoress, Anne Plumtree; the unfortunate Anne had disappointed her expectations, and Mrs. Iachbald thenceforward renounced author- esses and all their works. The young Irishwoman was not a person who required any ones aid to climb to a niche in the Temple of Fame. She still re- lied on herself, worked at novels, and per- haps too loquacious heroines, till she had achieved independence, and then friends of- fered themselves to her in crowds. Not that she had previously lacked good, true, and few 109 110 friends,not one of whom she ever lost, and the childrens children of whom seemed drawn towards her in willing allegiance to the scriptural injunction Thine own friend and thy fathers friend forget not. To a genius so impulsive, some of these friends were of the utmost value,women who dis- cerned Sydneys weaknesses as well as her excellence, and who warned her in an elo- quent, a loving, and a truthful spirit. Among these, the wise, brilliant, and good Lady Charleville stands supreme. It was just when Sydney had triumphed over the difficulties which had beset her path that she was invited to become a permanent guest in the family of the Marquis and Mar- ehioness of Abercorn,proud, estimable peo- ple, full of eccentricities and kind as well as troublesome intentions, and with the fash- ionable mania about them of possessing as their own some clever or scientific or face- tious personage. We speak of fifty years ago; but the fashion has long since gone out To Sydney, or to Glorvina, as she was now called from the popularity of her Wild Irish Girl, this seemed dependence; but she saw in it an acknowledgment of her worth, and an opportunity to rise higher in the scale on which originally her position had been one of so humble a degree. Lady Abercorn loved geniuses as other ladies loved monkeys, and parted with them as easily as she had sought them eagerly. My lord was a man who thought of the common people as St. Simon did of the eanaille below the peer- age. Fumigation of his room followed the presence there of a livened servant, and the chambermaids were not allowed to touch his bed except in white kid gloves. He al- ways dressed himself en grande tenue, and never sat down at a table except in his blue ribbon, with star and garter. The fact is, that these eccentricities were in the very blood of the Hamiltons. The marquiss un- cle and predecessor (whose wife Walpole de- scribed as a most frightful gentlewoman ) travelled over Europe, sitting bolt upright in a carriage, without ever touching the back of it. It was he who received Queen Char- lotte at his house in Essex, on her arrival in England; and who when the king at a sub- sequent levee, courteously hoped the queens presence had not put him to much inconven- ience, calmly replied that it had very much inconvenienced him indeed. Robertson, LADY MORGAN~S MEMOIRS. the historian, thought once to flatter him by remarking, as they walked together through his lordships garden, that the shrubs had grown since his last visit. Theyve noth- ing else to do, said my lord; in whom, be it said, eccentricity often took a generous common-sense turn. His brother, a clergy- man, asked him to procure government pre- ferment for him, whereupon Lord Abercorn settled on him 1,000 a-year, and hoped to hear no more of such nonsense. His nephew and heir succeeded to his estates and cc- centricities,welcomed Sydney Owenson, yawned over the reading of her manuscripts, and made lazy love to her in his lazy and supercilious way. He was not the first. From her early girlhood her path had been beset by lovers of every quality and de- gree. First amongst these was that way- ward boy of promise, the vain and selfish poet, Thomas Dermody. Who, writes this young minstrel to Miss Owensons fa- ther in 1801, who is the Mr. Moore Syd- ney mentions I He is nobody here, I assure you, of eminence. Later in the year, to the young lady herself, he writes, respecting his poems about to be published, The sonnet to you is to be published with a note, and another long and not despicable poem, called An Epistle to a Young Lady, after many Years Absence. I did not think it might be agreeable or prudent to affix your name. I will also confess, that in writing the verses to Athen~ (a Greek name of my own, signi- fying flowery, and, in a figurative sense, ami- able), you were not entirely absent from my imagination. Sydney seems to have re- proached him for the small account he made of Moore; for in the same letter, he writes, You are mistaken if you imagine I have not the highest respect for your friend Moore~ 1 have written the review of his poems in a strain of panegyric to which I am not fre- quently accustomed. Lovers of a different quality were the two captains, Benson and Earle, whom Olivia once found sitting with her sister in the par. br at Kilkenny, talking high sentiment, and all the three shedding tears. On one captain, Sydney had soon to write an elegy; and on the back of a letter from the other, Captain Benson, she made the record, that this elegant and highly gifted young man drowned himself near York, a few months after I received this letter. Subsequently appearedhonest, hearty, single-minded Frank Crossley, a squire who made himself the slave of his mistress, copied her illegible manuscripts for the press, sat at her feet for a smile, was happy when he received it, and was as embarrassed as he was happy. Syd- ney played with Frank as Titania may have done with the Weaver, and passed on fancy free to encounter the homage of John Wil- son Croker, the most hitter enemy she ever possessed in after-life. But Croker was one who could ticket his imaginary causes of of- fence, and lay them by till they were wanted: the best illustration of which savage whim was the production of a boyish letter from Moore, which he had carefully retained for above half a century, and which he publish~d after the poet was in his grave, in order to convict the friend of his youth of having vio- lated the truth. That Croker should have admired Sydney Owenson was, perhaps, as natural as that he should afterwards be the savage reviewer of her works, written in sup- port of popular liberty and emancipation of Roman Catholics. The fact is, she was irre- sistible; and when Mr. Everard, in 1806, called upon her to induce her not to listen to the addresses of his son, who was an idle young fellow, he was so charmed with her pleasant ways and sound judgment that he made her an offer himself! She loved such homage, and, in the spring- time of her beauty and her genius, it was lavished upon her with a profuseness which was not beyond her appetite or enjoyment. At times, we are told, she may have lis- tened to the charmer more than ~vise in a young girlat least, her elders thought and said so. Not that she went wrong, even by implication or in appearance; she had too much sense for that; hut she found herself in a circle where every woman paid her com- pliments, and where every man, as the mode in Ireland was, made love to her. She un- doubtedly played with the fire; but she was too busy with her literary projects to do more than playa weaker woman might have been consumed. Such fate was not likely to he Sydney Owensons; she was quite as wide awake as Ch6niers Nais, whose veil, when dropped, Daphuis dared not crumple, and who, when wooed to recline at noontide on a shady bank, remarked, as less consider- ate nymphs of Arcadia would not have done 111 Volis! cet humide garon Va souillcr ma tunique! Besides, it is manifest that the homage of intellectual men alone was acceptable to her. Capricious enough this spoiled child of her day may have been, now Wisdom wooing her to the saint, and anon, Sense winning her to the shrine; hut the handsomest fool had no chance with her, and one of the most charm- ing and the prettiest told of her flirtations, was that which she dexterously maintained with Sir Charles Ormsby, a man much older than the lady, and the ugliest fellow and the most accomplished man in Dublin. There is stuff for a sparkling comedy in these love-passages, which, after all, ended in noth- ing, except saving a man from being hanged. The culprit in peril was a clerk named Fitz- patrick, condemned for stealing a bank-note out of a letter. There were circumstances which made Sydney Owenson resolved to save at least his life. Among other persons, she addressed Sir Charles, long after the flir- tation was over, and in her most character- istic way: Seriously, and without send- ment, my dear friend, rally your deceased feelings in my favor. I depend on you for ONCE forget yourself and remember mc. The impertinence is charming; and it helped to save the man which was all she cared for. But Sydneys army of martyrs was ever being recruited; their name was legion, and the list is worthily closed, before the tri- umphant swain appeared, in the person of Archdeacon King, rector of Mourne Abbey, who, however, sued in vain to be permitted to contribute to her felicity, and to corn- plete his happiness. When the bewildered dignitary knew the worst, he still connected his name and fame with hers. The unfor. tunate rector of Mourne Abbey, he writes, cherishes the hope that if he cannot be blest with the hand, he will be immortalized by the pen of the elegant and interesting Glorvina. The archdeacon passed on, and though occasionally we come on a sly un~ dertone of love-making, there was nothing more of serious importance in this pleasant episode of life, till Mr. Charles Morgan came to reside with the Abercorns as their family physician. Then for her had come ths hour and the man.~~ It was an auspicious hour, for it brought an honest and accomplished man. Dr. LADY ~ MEMOIRS. 112 Morgan, wrote Lady Abercorn to Miss Owenson, is very clever in more ways than one, as he understands simony and all Mrs. Malaprops accomplishments. I believe he is of your religious persuasion, and seems to think Moses mistaken in his calculations. There is no story in the romance of love more amusing than this one of the reality, the scene of which lay among the Abercorn family. The physician, all able man as he was, daring in his profession and audacious in his philosophy, was afraid of the lion- ess of her day, and fairly jumped out of window into a garden when he first heard her dreaded name announced. But the royal proverb-maker has said that humility goes before honor: and after a series of gay yet graceful minuet steps and swimmings, and pretty stiff-neckedness, and shrinkings and haughty shakings of the head, reproofs on the lip but smiles in the eye, as with the lady who bothered Mr. Roderick OMore, the two joined hands and were engaged. It is truly a matter worthy of wonder, wrote Lady Stanley, in the autumn of 1811, and particularly to me who have hitherto adhered pertinaciously to a persuasion that kindred spirit~ were subjected to the same laws as parallel lines, and never could meet on this ungracious planet. But now, it was the lady who was, or who affected to be, timid. She was as wilful as any other pretty spoiled child of fortune. She would and she would not, and she would if she could; dallied, promised, played with, and perplexed one of the most straight- forward and honest of lovers, and at length suddenly ran away to Dublin, to help to nurse a sick father. The lovers tilted at each other in letters, or wooed, provoked, and were reconciled through the post, which was hard put to it by a correspondence, in which the gentleman will have the greater admiration on the part of an interested pub- lie. Finally, the coquette was lured back to the Abercorns, then residing at Strabane, in the North of Ireland. A few more trifle- ings with fate and a worthy man ensued, till Lady Abercorn, who had got her friend the lord lieutenant to inflict knighthood on the doctor, by way of adding dignity to the lover, resolutely interfered. On a cold morning in January, 1812, Miss Owenson was sitting in the library by the fire, in her morning LADY MORGAN~S MEMOIRS., wrapper, when Lady Abercorn opened the door and said: Glorvina, come up-stairs directly, and be married; there must be no more trifling! The ceremony was per- formed in the marchionesss dressing-room, where the family chaplain and Sir Charles Morgan were waiting, and the Wild Irish Girl was married, past redemption. With this incident really terminated the romance of Sydney Owensons life. Hith- erto we have been accompanying her through paths and scenes and courses full of striking details and startling or pleasant incidents, every one of which wears a novel aspect. Ilenceforward we go band in hand with Lady Morgan, through more familiar scenes; and though we do not become less interested in her, our interest is often doubly excited by those whom she introduces to us. It is from this point that her real life as an author commences, dating from which she wrote the best of her romances, penned the expe- riences of her travel, and made her reputa- tion lasting as well as brilliant. The mar- ried couple exchangqd their semi-indolence under the roof of the Marquis of Abercorn for busy life in Dublin, each in their respec- tive professions. On one point the late guest was of as good blood as her host, al- though perhaps she knew it not; for, if she was the daughter of an actor, the mother of the first marquis was daughter of Santlow, famed for dance. The second volume, then, is as the busi- ness of life succeeding to the romance,the waywardness, playfulness, and trials and temptations crowding in the sparkling pages of the first. The two together will undoubt- edly insure an increase of esteem for the character, abilities, industry, nnd energy of this remarkable woman. Of Sir Charles the public will, for the first time, learn much that is interesting, and more that is amus- ing. There is just enough, and no excess, of this clever man. When the two were lionizing in the salons of Paris and chateaux of France, the wits there thought, or af- fected to think, that the lady gave them too little of herself and overmuch of the medi- cal knight, and they circulated a little epi- gram on the subject, which, we believe, has never been printed, and at which probably no one laughed more hilariously than my lady herself. It was to this effect LADY MORGAN ~S MEMOIRS. Tout le monde se r~jouit Dc voir Le M~dccin maIgr~ lui. Mais dabord je inc plains, ma foi! IDe voir ic midccin, malgrd moi ! Of romance, in the second volume of these Memoirs, there is no lack; but it refers rather to the friends of the autobiog- rapher than to the writer herself,.and that truth is even more romantic than fiction is once more excellently illustrated in the chapters referring to Byron and Lady Caro- line Lamb, in which we meet with passages in the lives of that impulsive and irregularly principled pair, with which the world .has been hitherto in ignorance. Here is a wild snatch of autobiography, that of Lady Caroline, which in a few lines tells of a sad life My history, if you ever care and like to read it, is this: My mother, having boys, wished ardently for a girl; and I, who evi- dently ought to have been a soldier, was found a naughty girlforward, talking like Richard the Third. I was a trouble, not a pleasure, all my childhood, for which reason, after my return from Italy, where I was from the age of four until nine, I was ordered by the late Dr. Warre neither to learn anything nor see any one, for fear the violent passions and strange whims they found in me should lead to madness; of which, howcvcr~ he as- sured every one there were no symptoms. I differ, but the end was, that until fifteen I learned nothing. My instinctfor we all have instinctswas for musicin it I de- lighted; I cried when it was pathetic, and did all that iDrydens ode made Alexander doof course I was not allowed to follow it up. My angel mothers ill-health prevented my living at home; my kind Aunt Devon- shire took me; the present duke loved me better than himself, and every one paid me those compliments shown to children who are precious to their parents, or delicate and likely to die. I wrote not, spelt not; but I made verses, which they all thought beauti- fulfor myself, I preferred washing a dog, or polishing a piece of Derbyshire spar, or breaking in a horse, to any accomplishment in the world. Drawing-roomshall I say withdrawing-room, as they now say Plook- ing-glasses, finery, or dress-company forever were my abhorrence. I was, I am, religious; I was loving (?), but I was and am unkind. I fell in love when only twelve years old with a friend of Charles Foxa friend of~ liberty, whose poems I had read, whose self I had never seen, and when I did see him, at thirteen, could I change? No, I was more attached than ever. William Lamb THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 97l~ was beautiful, and far the cleverest person then about, and the most daring in his opin- ions, in his love of liberty and independence. He thought of me but as a child, yet he liked me much; afterwards he offered to marry me, and I refused him because of my temper, which was too violent; he, however, asked twice, and was not refused the second time, and the reason was that I adored him. I had three children; two died; my only child is afflicted; it is the will of God. I have wandered from right, and been pun- ished. I have suffered what you can hardly believe; I have lost my mother, whose gen- tleness and good sense guided me. I have received more kindness than I can ever re- pay. I have suffered, also, bu~ I deserved it. My power of mind and of body are gone; I am like the shade of what I was; to write was once my resource and pleasure; but since the only eyes that ever admired my most poor and humble productions are closed, wherefore should I indulge the pro- pensity? God bless you; I write from my heart. You are one like me, who, perhaps, have not taken the right road. I am on my death-bed; say I might have died by a dia- mond, I die now by a brickbat; but re- member, the only noble fellow I ever met with is William Lamb; he is to me what Shore was to Jane Shore. I saw it once; I am as grateful, but as unhappy. Pray ex- cuse the sorrows this sad, strange letter will cause you; could you be in time I would be glad to see youto you alone would I give up Byrons lettersmuch else, but all like the note you have. Pray excuse this being not written as clearly as you can write. I speak, as I hope you do, from the heart.C. In another page this most unhappy lady says of her husband: He cared nothing for my morals. I might flirt and go about with what men I pleased. He was privy to my affair with Lord Byron, and laughed at it. His indolence rendered him insensible to everything. When I ride, play, and amuse him, he loves me. In sickness and suffering he deserts me. His violence is as bad as my own. Then follows this double sketch of Byron and herself: Lady Westmoreland knew him in Italy. She took on her to present him. The women suffocated him. I heard nothing of him, till one day Rogers (for he, Moore, and Spen- cer were all my lovers, and wrote me up to the skiesI was in the clquds)Rogers said, You should know the new poet, and he of- fered me the MS. of Childe Harold to read. I read it, and that was enough. Rogers 113 LADY MORGAN~S MEMOIRS. 114 said, He has a club-foot, and bites his nails. killed me! Out of my senses, I flew into I said, If he was ugly as dEsop I must the hall, and screamed, 0 God, I have mur- know him. I was one night at Lady West- dered the page! The servants and people morelands; the women were all throwing in the streets caught the sound, and it was their heads at him. Lady Westmoreland soon spread about. William Lamb would led me up to him. I looked earnestly at live with me no longer. All his family him, and turned on my heel. My opinion united in insisting on our Separation. in my journal was, madhad--.-and danger- Whilst this was going on, and instruments ens to know. A day or two passed; I was drawing outthat is, one monthI wrote sitting with Lord and Lady Holland, when and sent Glenarvon to the press. I wrote it, he was announced. Lady Holland said, I unknown to all,save a governess, Miss must pre~eiit Lord Byron to you. Lord Welsh,in the middle of the night. It was Byron said, That offer was made to you necessary to have it copied out. I had heard before; may I ask why you rejected it? of a famous copier, an old Mr. Woodhead. He begged permission to come and see me. I sent to heg he would come to see Lady He did so the next day. Rogers and Moore Caroline Lamb, at Mel~hourne House. I were standing by me; I was on the sofa. placed Miss XVelsh, elegantly dressed, at my I had just come in from riding I was harp, and myself at a writing-table, dressed filthy and heated. When Lord Byron was in the pages clothes, looking a boy of four- announced, I flew out of the room to wash teen. He adtessed Miss Welsh as Lady myself. When I returned, Rogers said, Caroline. She showed him the author. He Lord Byron, you are a happy man. Lady would not believe that this ~choolboy could Caroline has been sitting here in all her dirt write such a thing. He came to me again in with us, but when you were announced, she a few days, and he found me in my own flew to beautify herself. Lord Byron wished clothes. I told him William Ormond, the to come and see me at eight oclock, when I young author, was dead. When the work was alone; that was my dinner hour. I said was printed, I sent it to XVilliam Lamb. He he might. From that moment, for more was delighted with it; and we became united, than nine months, he almost lived at Mel- just as the world thought we were parted bourne House. It was then the centre of forever. The scene at Brocket Hall (in the all gayety, at least in appearance. My novel of Glenarvon) was true. Lord Byrons Cousin Hartington wanted to have waltzes deaththe ghost appearing to herher dis- and quadrilles; and at Devonshire House it traction at his death. Medwins talk corn- would not be allowed, so we had them in the pleted her distress. great drawing-room of Melbourne House. All the bon ton of London assembled here The cruel-kind letter, warm, as it were, every day. There was nothing so fashion- with the bad Byron blood, full of devilish able. Byron contrived to sweep them all insinuation, yet so transparently absurd that away. My mother grew miserable, and did it could have deceived, or cheered, or mad- everything in her power to break off the conncction. She at last brought me to con- dened, none but a woman whose feelings seat to go to Ireland with her and papa. were uncontrolled and uncontrollable by her Byron wrote me that letter which I have judgment, will be read with universal in- shown you. While in Ireland, I received terest: letters constantly,the most tender and the most amusing. We had got to Dublin, on My DEAREST CArtoLrwe,If tears wbich our way home, where my mother brought me you saw and know I am not apt to shed,.-~- a letter. There was a coronet on the seal. if the agitation in which I parted from you, The initials under the coronet were Lady agitation which you must have perceived Oxfords. It was that cruel letter I have through the whole of this most nervous af- published in Glenarvon: it destroyed me; I fair, did not commence until the moment of lost my brain. I was bled, leeched; kept leaving you approached,if all I have said for a week in the filthy Dolphin Inn at Rock. and done, and am still but too ready to say On my return, I was in great prostration of and do have not sufficiently proved what my mind and spirit. Then came my fracas with real feelings are, and must ever be, towards the page, which made such noise. He was you, my love, I have no other proof to offer. a little espi~gle, and would throw detonating God knows, I wish you happy, and when I balls into the fire. Lord Melbourne always quit you, or rather you, from a sense of duty scolded me for this; and I, the boy. One to your husband and mother, quit me, you day I was playing ball with him. He threw shall acknowledge the truth of what I again a squib into the fire, and I threw the ball at promise and vow, that no other in word or his head. It hit him on the temple, and he deed shall ever hold the place in my affec- bled. He cried out. 0 my lady, you have tions, which is, and shall be, most sacred to LADY MORGAN~S MEMOIRS. you, till I am nothing. I never knew till that moment the madness of my dearest and most beloved friend; I cannot express my- self; this is no time for words, hut I shall have a pride, a melancholy pleasure, in suf- fering what you yourself can scarcely con- ceive, for you do not know me. I am about to go out with a heavy heart, because my appearing this evening will stop any absurd story which the~spite of the day might give rise to. Do you think now I am cold and stern and wilful P will ever others think so? will your mother ever that mother to whom we must indeed sacrifice much more, much more on my part than she shall ever know or can imagine P Promise not to love you, ah, Caroline, it is past promising. But I shall attribute all concessions to the proper motive, and never c~s e to feel all that you have already witnesTed, and more than can ever be known but to my own heart,perhaps to yours. May God pro- tect, forgive, and bless you ever and evex, more than ever. Your most attached BYRON. P.S.These taunts which have driven you to this, mydearest Caroline, were it not or our mother and the kindness of your connections, is there anything in earth or heaven that would have made me so happy as to have made you mine long ago P and not less now than then, but more than ever at this time. You know I would with pleas- tire ~ve up all here and beyond the grave for you, and in refraining from this, must my motive be misunderstood P I care not who knows this, what use is made of it,it is to you and to you only that they are, your- self. I was and am yours freely and en- tirely to obey, to honor, love and fly with you when, where, and how yourself might and may determine. When the heart and brain of the poor impulsive woman was crushed, her husband estranged, their home broken up and their hearth mmide desolate, Byron coolly wrote of his victim in reference to her husband and himself, as Thou false to him, thou fiend to me. Lady Caroline, on the other hand, speaks of her tempter and betrayer, in a letter to Lady Morgan, as Lord Byron, that dear, that angel, that misguided and misguiding Byron, whom I adore, although he left that dreadful legacy on me,my memory. There is something of the dis- traught Ophelia in the way poor, mad Lady Caroline regulates-the scale of her adoration, in which she assigns the first place to the husband, from whom she had separated, and the third to Faustus 115 I hope he and William will find better friends; as to myself, I never can love any. thing better than what I thus tell you: William Lamb, first; my mother, second; Byron, third; my boy, fourth; my brother William, fifth; my father and godmother, sixth; my uncle and aunt, my cousin Dev.~ onshire, my brother Fred. (myself,) my cous ins next, and last my petit friend, young Russell, because he is my aunts godson; because when he was but three I nursed him; because he has a hard-to-win, free, and kind heart; but chiefly because he stood by me when no one else did. Of romance of a less sad quality, Lady Morgan narrates some details which illus- trate some and correct other passages in the life of Mrs. Fitzherbert. There is a gallery of heroines in these volumes, and to Mrs.p Fitzherbert appropriately succeeds the tin wived wife of a more worthless prince tham he whom the former lady had for husband, for a time. Mrs. Patterson Buonaparte, whom the Romish Church still recognizes as the legitimate wife of Jerome, and in not knowing whom Napoleon was supremely un- lucky, renders many a page of these Me.~ moirs brilliant, by her letters, which are al.~ ways piquantes and itivariably as frank and tender as any sentiment ever uttered or agreed to by dear Mrs. Candour. Th~ American princess thus flatters Lady Mor.. gan, tomahawks her own acquaintances, and scalps a countrywoman How happy you must be at filling the world with your name as you do! Madame de Sta~l and Madame de Genlis are forgot.. ten; and if the love of fame be of any weight with you, your excursion to Paris was attended with brilliant success. I as~ sure you, and you know I am sincere, that you are more spoken of than any other per- son of the present day. Mr. Moore seldoiu sees me, I did not take with him at all. He called to show me the article of your let- ter which mentions the report of the DukB of Wellingtons loves. I am not the Mrs. the great man gives as a successor t~ Grassini. You would be surprised if you knew how great a fool she is, at the power she exercises over the duke; hut I believe that he has no taste pour lissfemmes des- prtt; which is, however, no reason for going into extremes, as in this cases He gave her an introduction to the Prince Regent, and to every one of consequence In London and Paris. She had, however, no success in France, where het tiot speaking the lai~ guage of the Countty w~s a eonsid~rabI LADY MORGAN~S MEMOIRS. advantage to her, since it prevented her nonsense from being heard. Do not tell what I have written to you of this affair, since I should pass for malicious and un- friendly towards my compatriot and relation. She writes, too, all the paragraphs you may have seen in the newspapers; and might re- venge herself by saying some spiteful things of me through that channel. Here are two or three more friends, spitted like larks My health obliged me to spend some weeks in the country, and Madame DHou- chin, you know, wakes when other persons sleep, which renders it impossible to enjoy her society without paying the price of a nights repose, and this to me is very difficult since I have lost my health. Your old friend and ~admirer, M. Suard, is dead of old age. I met him two weeks previous, at a party, where he enjoyed himself as much as any of us. His widow gave a dinner the day week after, because she was afraid of being triste, she said. Since then she receives as usual, and takes promenades on the Boulevards, because hon ami ma dit quil fallait vivre. Bier friends are encouraged to flatter them- selves that her great sensibility will not kill her; at the same time that it induces her to give them parties and attend their reunions. She grieves in the most agreeable way to all those who find her house convenient or her society desirable. . . . Madame de Sta~I died regretting a life, which she had con- trived to render very agreeable in every way. Her marriage with Mr. Rocca is thought very superfluous. The liberal system she pursued through life forbids us to attribute other motives to her last matrimonial exper- iment,unless that of tranquillizing the con- science of her young lover may be added. All her most intimate friends were ignorant that a marriage existed, and unless her XVilI had substantiated the fact, would have treated ~her marriage ceremony as a calumny. Marrying a man twenty years younger than herself, without fortune or name, is a ridicule in France, pire quun crime. Her son, by him, is called one of her posthumous works. What think you of the Manuscript of St. Helena being attributed to her and Benja- min Constant? Is it possible to carry ab- surdity and the desire of rendering her in- consistent further? I have heard persons gravely assert that she wrote it. The glimpses of Moore, few and far be- tween, are always interesting. There is a lit- tie tone of patronage, at first, or of condescen- sion towards the grocers son; but the aris- 4ocracy of talent makes all choice equal in the republic of letters, and the tone improves as the pair proximate to the line of equal celebrity. Here are the two who loyally made their way through the world, brought together in Dublin, in 1831 February 15th. Sitting all alone to- day; just before dinner enter T. Moore! pardi! I could not believe ~y eyes. Why, what on earth brings you here? is it to dine with me to-d~ty? No, Ill dine with you to-morrow. My mother was dying, I was sent for, she has seen me, and has revived. Morgan came in. Moore sat all the time; I never before saw him sit for ten minutes to- gether; he was cordial and pleasant and con- fidential. He told us many strange things. Poor fellow, he has never been able to get out of debt. He told us Rogers had ex- pended 3,000 on the publication of his dandy book. Oh, these amateur authors who write for fashion, while we write for fame or famine! Moore says he thinks Mur- ray would like to publish for me. February 17th. 1 had a little dinner got up in a hurry for Moore, yesterday; it was got up thus: I threw up~ my windows, and asked the in- mates of the cabs and carriages of my friends as they passed the windows, and sent out some penny porters, and lighted up my rooms. Moore was absolutely astounded when he saw my party! He sang some of his most beautiful songs in his most delight- ful manner, without stopping; some of~them twice over, and all of them as if every word was applicable to the people around him. Many of his old friends were around him; I said, If you stay a day or two longer, Ill do better than this. No, no, he said, never again can such a thing be done. This is one of the few happy incidents which occur but rarely; besides, I dont want to efface the impression even by something better. I never saw him more natural or agreeable. He praised Murray to the skies, and said he was princely in his conduct to authors. Moore disliked me in my youth; he told me at Florence that he thought By- ron did not wish to know me, and did wish to know Morgan. In such and in more important traits of society these volumes are,especial]y rich, and of good stories there is a sufficiency to set up professional diners-out for a whole season. They are all new and true, and we cite one or two as memory serves us, with.. out regarding chronology. How character- istic is the remark of Charles Lamb, who, sitting opposite the exceedingly unwashed Hazlitt, at whist, complacently observed, 116 LADY MORGAN~S MEMOIRS. Hazlitt, if dirt was trumps, what a capital haad you would have! Excellent in its way, too, for its boldness, truth, and humor, is the incident which occurred when Lady Morgan was present at the opening of Par- liament by the young queen. When the House of Commons rushed in, with all their rude, rough, schoolboy boisterousness, Philip Courtenay and some of my Irish members, writes Lady Morgan, were so close to me that I could not help turning to them, and muttering, My faithful Commons, why are you so vulgar? Another characteristic re- mark made in a royal palace was that of Pat Grant, her ladyships footman (the Denis Fagan of the novel of The Princess). Grant had followed his master and mistress within the royal palace at russels, where they were to be the guests of King Leopold. Lady Morgan said to him as she gave him her cloak, This is a noble palace, Grant ; he answered, with a look full of reproach and contempt, Well thea II wonder to hear your ladyship say that, you that has been at the Castle at. Dublin? Indeed, the ser- vants, in these volumes, are as good com- pany as their betters. When Lady Morgan called to inquire after the health of Mrs. Maturin and her baby, the servant returned with the message, Plaze, my lady, the mas- ther says, My angel is better, but my cberuh has flown! under the circumstances, a piece of good luck for the cherub! We must close. It is the record of a life which commenced amid the singing of friends one Christmas Eve some score of years ago, and which began to die away to her own singing, on St. Patricks Night of 1859. It began and ended characteristically, for lightness of spirit was part of the fortune of the lady. In the earliest stages of that life, labor was undertaken cheerfully; it ~vas never long laid down for holiday, and when life ~vas fast fading away, the worker of old was contemplating a work on Moore Park, the Temples, Swift and Stella. The labor of Lady Morgan was, after her early run as light novelist, all directed to solid purpose. When to advocate Catholic Emancipation was to draw down upon the advocate a spe- cies of ostracism, Lady Morgan supported the good cause. When it was won, Rome forbade the reading of her books, and she felt the force of the compliment. TEE CANAL or SUEZ. It is no longer post sible, says the Moniteur, to dispute the prac- ticability of this canal, now that the part between Port Said and Timseh has been executed. That part is the only one that has never before been constructed; it is the only one, therefore, about which there could have been a doubt, and re- garding which difficulties and unfavorable an- ticipations might have been suggested. As we have often remarked before, the canal from Timseh to Suez has been di,,,,ed and in actual use in former times, at four different periods. We may, therefore, without any hesitation, as- sert that the problem has been substantially and satisfactorily solved, as maritime communication is no~v open as far as Timseh. Beyond that point there is nothing to be done which the an- cients have not already achieved, with resources greatly inferior to those of modern science. And our contemporary proceeds to say, Thus the operationof 186162 will end with the im- portant fact of a commencement being made at EI-Gnisr; and those of 18623, which, as we hope, will unite the two seas, have begun even before the first of November, the period marked out for them. Our letters inform us that in the latter part of October twelve thousand ~vorkmen were to have been engaged on different parts of the canal in the direction of Suez, from where it branches off at Nefeche to the Serapeum. We trust that with so large a number of workmen we shall soon be in a position to inform our readers of the completion of~vhat, simultaneously with the maritime portion, will be carried on as far as the quarries of Gebel-Gencife, which are so necessary for the construction of Port Said, and afterwards to Suez. WE understand that Mr. Maurice specially re- ferred to the announcement that had recently been made that he was about to resign his pre- ferment in the Church of England, and stated that he had withdrawn his resignation because he had found that he was quite mistaken in sup- posing that lie should promote the object which he intended to effect by that resignation. He is said to have avowed his firm faith in the Church of England, as set forth in her Formularies, ai~I in the Holy Scriptures as the foundation of that faith. He had thought that by resi~ning his emoluments and offices in the Church, his testi- mony in her favor would be thereby stronger, in the opinion of those who were impugning her faith and teaching; but lie had found that his resignation would be interpreted the other way, and therefore he had withdrawn it. Throughout lie had simply a public principle, aiid not a pri- vate feeling, to satisfy and vindicate.Eagli.k Ghurchrnan. 117 118 BISHOP COLENSO ON THE PENTATEUCH.~ THE remarkably grotesque attitude in which Dr. Colenso presents himself before the public in his recent brochure has caught every eye; and even those who were most disposed to look seriously, whether in sym- pathy or alarm, upon it, have with difficulty refrained from relaxing their features to the universal smile. We all know how naturally an absurd incident, intervening in the midst of a great solemnity, moves to mirth the most incongruous to the occasion; and the apectacle of a bishop rushing, in hot haste, across six thousand miles of ocean to pro- claim his spiritual overthrow by the first bar- barian he encountered in his savage diocese, has produced a mixture of feelings in which ~ravity does not generally predominate. At least, it is said, he should have brought the Zulu chieftain with him, to assure us from his own mouth that his doubts were genuine and original, and not first insinuated into his mind by his wavering and bewildered teacher. But for the sake of the bishop himself, who *uffers in personal feeling as well as in rep- utation, no less than for the large class of persons to whom his discomfiture will bring agitation and dismay, we curb any such emo- tions in ourselves. Our feelings towards Dr. Colenso would certainly be one of sor- iow rather than of ridiculemore, perhaps, of vexation, not unmixed with pity, than either. And this, we hasten to say, not on account of his views themselves, for which, as being manifestly the result of candid and manly inquiry, we are bound at all events to express our respect. Nothing can be fur- ther from our thoughts than to deprecate un- fettered freedom of investigation on the high- est ~subjects of human speculation; though, before a bishop of our Church publishes spec- ulations calculated to unsettle the minds of others, those speculations ought to be well and thoroughly considered. What we re- gret is the personal weakness, the lightness, the fickleness, the utter heedlessness which Dr. Colenso has betrayed in putting himself into the position from which alone his opin- ions have become matter of alarm, or even of notice. The book before us has been the ~ The Pentateuch and Bool~ of Joshua & itkall~q Examined. Part I. The Pentateucli Examined as an Historical Narrative. By the Right Rev. J. XV. Colenso, Bishop of Natal. Longman: 1862. BISHOP COLENSO ON THE PENTATEUCH. From The Saturday Review, talk of all circles during the last few weeks; and Dr. Colenso has not even hesitated to add to the unfortunate excitement it has cre- ated, by corresponding with the penny press about it. There can be no oecasion to ex- plain now particularly what are the notions it promulgates. It is sufficient to say that the writer questions the historical, as distin- guished from the doctrinal, authority of the earlier books of the Old Testament, and at present grounds his distrust mainly on cer- tain numerical statements in them, which he supposes to contravene the first principles of arithmetic. He tells us, however, that he has other and perhaps weightier objections behind, and promises to produce further ar- guments in support of his position in a future publication. He requires us to believe that these difficulties have now, for the first time, occurred to him with any forcethat he now, for the first time, finds himself obliged to discover a theory to reconcile them with his general belief in a divine revelation; and be- ing now, for the first time, assured that the Bible can no longer be regarded as infallibly true in matters of common history, he ex- horts us not to look for the inspiration of the holy One, which breathes through its pages, in respect of any such matters as these, which the writers wrote as men, with the same liability to errors from any cause as other men, and where they must be judged as men, as all other writers would be, by the just laws of criticism. Whatever may be thought of this solution of the difficulties indicated, there are few men of intelligence to ~vhom it presents any novelty. Most strange it must appear, to any one who has had his eyes and ears open for the last quarter of a century, that a man of fifty years or thereabouts, who has been for several years a resident Fellow in a con- spicuous college at Cambridge, who has achieved high academical distinctions, and has since filled posts of responsibility in the clerical profession, should have only just now begun to feel these difficulties, and have hardly yet become aware how much they have long occupied the thoughts of religious inquirers. Still more strange is it that a man who has enjoyed, and allowed himself to miss, such opportunities of better informa~ tion should have ventured to plunge into the spiritual trials and perils of a missionary bishop with such want of precaution or prep- BISHOP COLENSO ON THE P~NTATEUCH. aration, in such ignorance of the theological questions of the day, with such an entire misapprehension of his own ignorance al)out them, and knowing, we suppose, still less of the Zulus whom he was to convert than of the instrument by which, and the creed to which, he was to convert them. And, we will add, strangest of all is it that, having voluntarily placed himself in such a positiof~, and contracted such special obligations to his congregations, to the public generally, to his clergy and fellow-laborers, and to the Church of which he had made himself the organ, he should rush so lightly into print, and cause a flutter in many simple and pious breasts which his voice from college, or from his country-living, would hardly have reached, and, comparatively, little moved. With respect to th~ particular objections to the Bible narrative which are here brought forward, we have little to say. Some of them are undoubtedly hypocritical, some frivolous and almost puerile; while others (as, for instance, that regarding the alleged want of preparation for the Passover) seem to rest upon misconception, or even careless oversight; vud it must be added that, so lax and reckless is the character of the objec- tors mind, in several places he even copies incorrectly the very passages on which he founds his arguments. This is plainly shown in the pamphlet now before us of Mr. Marsh, and affords him an easy, though not, in the particular cases, an important triumph. The question, however, arises, what must be the character of the translation which the bishop professes to have executed, of nearly every book of Scripture into the Zulu language? We are justified in apprehending, not only that blunders from ignorance and inatten- tion abound in itwe totally distrust his ca- pacity to resist his perhaps unconscious bias in favor of his own opinions and fancies. Our missionary translations of the Bible have given rise to scandals before now, and if there is any gentleman. of critical ability acquainted with Zulu, itis much to be wished that he should be encouraged to review the the version put forth with authority in the diocese of Natal. A very slight consideration of the peculiar class of objections here brought before us would suffice to assure us that they deserve no special notice apart from the position and circumstance of the writer, and still more 119 from the really grave difficulties, geological and ethnographical, which, as is well known, lie behind them. Dr. Colenso prefaces hi. book with a letter, in which, as he tells us, he sought counsel, on the first budding of his doubts and scruples, of a nameless pro- fessor in an English university. This ref- erence has excited, we believe, some jeal.- ousy; but as the letter, after all, was not sent, in the impatience of the writer to work out his own conclusions, we need not specu- late further as to the person for whom it was intended And yet it appears to us that, if the choice of an adviser were well made, and if the inquirer could have exercised sufficient self-control, to wait for a reply, and h~ed- fully to ponder it, he might have been re,- assured, not only as regards some of his par- ticular objections, but as to the broader principles of criticism by which he has been led to them. We should have had no wish ourselves to receive his confession, nor would he consent, perhaps, to be shriven by us; and it is to the readers of his volume who have been interested, and possibly harassed, by the views it promulgates, rather than to himself, that we would address some further remarks upon the general subject. The human mind has clung, at all periods, with invincible cQnviction, to the belief in some outward manifestation of a higher mind and power. We have all remarked how, in the days of the decline of positive creeds among the Pagans of old4 the pission for astrology, magic, and thaumaturgy of every kind grew more vehement and engrossing than ever. Many of us have been personal witnesses to the curious fact that, at this present era of spiritual doubts and conflicts, tl~e same men who have most unreservedly abandoned the profession of a Christian faith have been generally the most wildly excited by the supernatural pretensions of the so- called Spiritualists. Old-fashioned believers have beheld, with a smile or a sigh, this ef~ feminate exchange of a reasonable and affect- ing faith for a grovelling and aimless supersti- tionthe same which has re-appeared from age to age under certain predisposing causes, and vanished again and again amidst the con~ tempt or indignation of mankind. But what- ever be the causes which are found thus to dispose certain minds to the supernatual, to those who, in our times, have been trained in the hopes and aspiratioas of Chriatianity, BISHOP COLENSO ON THE PENTATEUCH. the faith in some divine revelation or other has become generally a moral necessity. That such a revelation has been accompanied by some outward signsby some supernat- ural movements of the Deity upon the face of his creationis accepted by them almost as an axiom. They find, in the narratives of the Gospel, external testimony to the fact of such a revelation. They have good rea- s~m td believe that the direct historical evi- dence for that narrativeat least, in its foundation and outline, with its astonishing apparatus of signs and wondersis stronger than. that which exists for any combination of events recorded in contemporary history; that the evidence for the genuineness of St. Johns or St. Pauls writings, for instance, is actually stronger than for those of Ca~sar or Tacitus. It is very fitting and necessary that it should be so. The foundation must be strong indeed that has to bear such a superstructure as that of the Christian reve- lation. But they know, further, that this external evidence is very amply supple- mented and confirmed by cumulative testi- mony of various kinds; and, especially, by the force of internal probability, as witnessed by the heart and conscience, and highest reason of a reasonable being. Planted upon this foundation, they regard the antecedent history of the older dispensation in its anal- ogy to the newer. Certainly, they do not find the same force of external evidence for this; but neither do they require it. They are free to exercise their critical faculty in weigh- ing scrupulously its amount; and if they feel a difficulty in regard to special facts or circumstances referred to it, they throw themselves back on the analogy of the dis- pensation which is more fully confirmed, or allow their minds to remain in suspense about them. Or, lastly, they may admit that, in using human instruments and vehicles for making known his revelations, the Deity has possibly permitted even the record of his providence to be mingled partially with human traditions, and subjected, more or less, to the laws of human infirmity. In granting a moral revelation of his na- ture and will to men, it seems to stand to reason that the Deity has imparted a genu- ine statement of his doctrines. It would be a contradiction in terms to suppose a reve- lation of error in regard to the very object for which it was given. But it is a mere as- sumption, to which Scripture itself, fairly in- terpreted, affords no countenance, to suppose that the narrative of purely historical facts along with which that doctrine is conveyed, is specially guarded by unerring truth, or dictated by special illumination. The early history of most nations is found, on critical examination, to be more or less mixed up with legend or tradition; and we give to it more or less credence according as we find its traditionary elements to correspond with the actual phenomena of its laws and insti- tutions. The mythical legends of Greece may be mostly, or, as Mr. Grote would say, wholly, inventions, unconscious or perhaps half unconscious; for we can trace little or no connection between them and the histor- ical politics of the land they sprang from. But those of Rome, as even Sir George Lewis would acknowledge, stand on a different foundation; for they correspond frequently and closely with what genuine history has preserved of the customs and institutions of a later date. The patriarchal history of the Jews, even if it be compiled, as secular crit.. icism at the present day pretends, from na- tional recollections and traditions, the origin of which is lost in the night of ages, claims, nevertheless, our belief in its main outline, and in its principal details, as purely secular criticism itself must allow, from the manner in which it is incorporated in the whole body of Jewish law, and lives and breathes in the ideas of the Jewish people. It becomes the necessary antecedent to the later history, for assault and battery. As the extra-legal ap- peal to force gradually dies out, the equally extra-legal appeal to opinion takes its place. And so it is with nations also. In the first place, every appeal to international law is really an appeal to opinion. Internat~ona1 law is certainly not law in the same sense as common, civil, or canon law, because there is no common superior peaceably to enforce it. An appeal to the law of nations is much more like an appeal to the laws of honor than it is like a suit at the Assizes or in the County Court. If one party contumaciously refuses obedience to either law, the aggrieved party must either submit in silence or appeal to force. But, besides all this, there seem to be signs afloat of bringing the direct power of opinion to bear upon international affairs. There is a state of things in which you nei- ther fight your enemy nor go to law with 120 BISHOP COLENSO ON THE PENTATEUCH. him, but simply cut him dead. It is not so very long since we saw an example of a na- tion being cut in like manner. England had no ground of war against Ferdinand of Na- ples; but his Government was thought too disreputable to associate with, and so we cut him. Perhaps, to be perfectly consist- ent, we ought to have cut one or two other Governments at the same time. But neither nations nor individuals are always perfectly consistent. Men have, before now, been known to tolerate conduct in a duke for which they would certainly have cut a neigh- bor of their own rank. Still, this is a case of bringing direct social opinion to bear on na- tional affairs. The King of Naples was given to understand that he was not fit company for other kings, and he was treated accord- ingly. That appeal to physical force which always lies in the background in all national affairs 8upplies another reason why nations are more strict and litigious than individuals in asserting their rights, and why they are praised for being so when individuals would be blamed. The trustee feeling above men- tioned has a good deal to do with it, but it is not all. It is manifest that, in a state of things where force is the final arbiter, a na- tion which shows that it cannot be safely tri- fled with is in a much better position than one with which liberties may~be taken with- out fear of punishment. It seems to follow, then, that the law of morality for nations and for individuals is not exactly the same. The cardinal obligation of justice is always ex- actly the same, whether for a single man, for a corporation, or for a whole people. A nation, not less than an individual, must do right and keep its word. But some of what we may call the ornamental virtues are al- lowed much less space in international than in personal dealings. A nation may often be generous; but nothing but the strictest obligations of justice can call it to be self- sacrificing or self-denying. There is no room for works cf supererogation; it is enough if it keeps in good faith to the letter of the law. It must never be unjust or unfaithful, but it may well be more guided by a view to its own advantage, less considerate of others, more suspicious, selfish, exacting, and ob- stinate than a perfectly virtuous man will be. A nation, in short, is seldom called upon to play the part of a hero, or to exer 121 cise any high decree of cosmopolitan patriot- ism. It is commonly enough if it recognizes the just claims of others, and does not put forth false claims of its own. In short, the morality of nations is much the same as the often-maligned morality of corporations. It is the fact that the whole world is mapped out among nations, while only a small part of any country is mapped out among cor- porations, which makes the main difference between them. The following letter to the (London) Record, will more fully explain the Bishops difficulty to many readers of the Livint;v Age: SIR: You will observe, in a recent arti- cle, that the public is becoming accustomed to the strange vagaries on the Bible, which men of learning and high position in the Church seem so constantly falling into. I should be glad to express, through the medium of your columns, what appears to me the secret of all this: and I the rather de- sire to do so, because I am myself a monu- ment of the delivering power and mercy of God in this very matter. It is very observable that almost all the men who have thus notoriously erred from the way of the truth, are men of some kind of eminence in natural ability. Of Mr. Maurice, I cannot say I think that even in natural things he excels in distinctness of the ideas, or of the power of clearly discern- ing nice differences. But the errors of such men as Heath, and especiallyBishop Colenso, cannot be attributable to any confusion of mind as to things which differtheir emi- nent honors at Cambridge forbid our taking that view. Besides I know from past expe- rience in the same gloomy school, that the possession of very considerable natural acu- men does not, in the least degree, aid a man whose mind is perplexed about the founda- tions of Bible truth. As to the objections urged by the above gentlemen to the generally received views of Scripture, and the doctrines which flow so immediately from its simple and spiritual acceptance as the Word of God, they know as well as we do that they are hackneyed and as old as our fallen nature, but then that does not remove them; they cannot receive the simple accounts of Scripture, because they have not Divine faith. I remember when I first began to read the Bible (and I thought I was sincerely seeking the truth), I was miserable because I could not believe it; I dared not reject any statementI found there; but I could not fully believe it was 122 true. The Bishop of Natal just expresses what I felt; and the fact that we took exactly the same university honors (in different years, of course), makes me sympathize with him peculiarly. My own history was just this: I had read and studied deeply in mathemat- ics; had mastered every fresh subject I en- tered upon with ease and delight; had- be- come accustomed (as every exact mathema- tician must do) to investigate and discover fundamental differences between things which seem to the uninitiated one and the same; had seen my way into physical astron- omy and the higher parts of Newtons im- mortal Principia, and been frequently lost in admiration of his genius till St. Marys clock warned me that midnight was past three hours ago. I had, in fact (as we say), made myself master of dynastics, and be- come gradually more and more a believer in the unlimited capacity of my own mind! This self-conceited idea was only flattered and fostered by eminent success in the Senate House, and by subsequently obtaining a Fel- lowship at Trinity, and enjoying very consid- erable popularity as a mathematical lecturer. It would have spared me many an hour of misery in after days had I really felt what I so often said, viz., that the deeper a man went in science, the humbler he ought to be; and the more cautious in pronouncing an in- dependent opinion on a subject he had not investigated, or could not thoroughly sift. But, though all this was true, I had yet to learn that this humility in spiritual things is never found in a natural man. I took orders and began to preach, and then, like the bishop among the Zulus, I found out the grand deficit in my theology. I had not the Spirits teaching myself, and how could I without it speak in demonstra- tion of the Spirit and of power? In vain did I read Chalmers, Paley, But- ler, Gaussen, etc., and determined that, as I had mastered all the other subjects I had grappled with, so I would the Bible, and that I would make myself a believer. I found a poor, ignorant old woman in my parish more than a match for me in Divine things. I was distressed to find that she was often happy in the evident mercy of the Lord to her, and that she found prayer answered, and that all this was proved sincere by her blameless and harmless walk amongst the neighbors; whilst I, with all my science and and investigation, was barren and unprofit- able and miserablean unbeliever in heart, pnd yet not daring to avow it, partly from the fear of man, but more from a certain in- ward conviction that all my sceptical diffi- culties would be crushed and leaped over by the experience of the most illiterate Chris- tian. BISHOP COLENSO ON THE PENTATEUCH. I was perfectly ashamed to feel in my mind like Voltaire, Volney, or Tom Paine. I could claim no originality in my views; and I found they were no comfort, but a constant source of misery to tue. May we not compare this kind of state to that which God speaks of in Jeremiah xlix: Thy terribleness hath deceived thee, and the pride of thine hc~rt! And observe ~vhat follows: Hear the counsel of the Lord. Surely the least of the flock shall draw them out. It may now be asked, how I came ever to view Divine truth differently. I desire to ascribe all praise to him to whom power be- longeth; I desire to put my own mouth to the dust, and be ashamed, and never open my mouth any more, because of my former unbelief. I cannot describe all I passed through, but I desire with humility and grat- itude to say, I was made willing in a day of Christs power. He s~veetly melted down my proud heart with his love; he shut my mouth forever from cavilling at any difficulties in the written Word; and one of the first things in which the great change appeared was, that whereas before-time preaching had been mis- ery, now it became my delight to he able to say, without a host of sceptical or infidel doubts rushing into my mind: Thus saith the Lord. Oh, I am quite certain no natu- ral man can see the things of God; and I am equally certain he cannot make himself do so. It was the Lord that exalted Moses and Aaron, said Samuel; and By the grace of God I am what I am, said St. Paul; and so, in a modified and humble sense, I can truly say. It used to be a terrible stumbling-block to me to find so many learned men, so many acute men, so many scientific men, infidels. It is not so now; I see that God has said, Not many wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble; I see as plainly as it is possible for me to see any- thing, that no natural man can receive tke things of the Spirit of God. Hence I expee~ to find men of this stamp of intellect coming out boldly with their avowal of unbelief in the written Word of God. The only answer I can give to them is, God has in mercy taught me better; and never do I sing those beautiful words in the well-known hymn but I feel my eyes filling with tears of gratitude to the God of all compassion Jesns sought me when a stranger Wandering from the fold of God. So it was with me; so it must be with any one of them if ever they are to know the trnth in its power, or to receive the love of the truth that they may be saved. I feel very much for the young of this generation, remembering the conflicts I passed through in consequence of the errors of men of ability. I hope the Lord will gra- ciously impress on many hearts the serious truth of these words, Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit; and The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. My own way of explaining it to myself and others, when required to do so, is by saying, It is not the mind, but the affections, which receive true religion. Knowledge puffeth up hut charity edifieth. Apologizing for occupying much room, I remain, my dear sir, Your obedient servant, A FORMER FEL. o~ TRIN. Cot., CAMB. Wymeswold Vic., Loughboroug1~, Oct. 15, 1862. From The Athennum. Something of Italy. By W. Chambers. Chambers. THE churm of these notes of a brief tour through Turin, Genoa, Florence, Rome, Naples, Lombardy, and Venetia, is their simplicity. Attempting to record some- thing, not much, about Italyjust those glances at the country, its people, and usages, which were casually obtained dur- ing a three months excursion in the spring and summer of 1862, they will be accepta- ble to the thousands of intelligent persons who, unable themselves to travel, wish at the present crisis, to see the outside of Ital- ian life through the eyes of an observant and educated tourist. As he walked through the broad, handsome, regular, and bustling streets of Turin, Mr. Chambers was quite struck with the demonstrations of activity. On all sides the people seemed to be eager in their conversations and discussions, as if conscious of their new obligations and priv- ileges; and it would have amused any one to see the universal demand for the cheap newspapers which were issued daily, without restraint by the press. At Rome, literature took another form. In visiting one of the printing-offices in Rome, I found that the largest impression of any product of the press is that of lottery-tickets. Thousands were in course of being thrown off in obe- dience to official authority, and the profit on their sale is said to form a branch of the public revenue. I am aware that the pur- chasing of lottery-tickets is a general Italian weakness, for we found the system going on everywhere; but considering the spiritual 123 character of the Roman Government, I should not have expected to find the lottery flourishing so conspicuously and on so mean a scale under its patronage. The sale of the tickets takes place at shops throughout the town, and at a price so small as to accom- modate the poorer inhabitants. Speaking of Neapolitan funerals, Mr. Chambers .says, When there is a deficiency of cash, mat- ters take a different turn; and on reading what I have got to say, the poor in England may feel that they are born to other bless- ings besides those enjoyed during life. Sur- mounting the open grounds of the Campo Santo Nuovo, there is a quadrangular structure, comprising private burial-vaults; and in the centre of it is a square paved court with subterranean depos~ories. It is in this last-mentioned arrangement that there is any peculiarity. In the pavement are rows of iron rings, to the number of one hundred and seventy-six; and each, on being lifted, gives access to a deep cell into which bodies are promiscuously dropped. A Cap- uchin monk, who was in attendance, did not seem inclined to be very communicative, but we gathered from him that the interments in these common receptacles are not gratui- tous. A charge equal to 5s. or Os. is made for each; and we further learned that the bodies, when lowered, are not quite naked. This, in short, is a middle-class cemetery, or, at all events, something better than a depository of disowned paupers or beggars. All the cells were closed; and as the monk was not disposed to open one at the request of a stranger, we drove off to the Campo Santo Vecchio, to try to get a little more explicit information. At the Campo Santo Vecchio the tourist was favored with a peep down one of the apertures of the burial-pit for l)aupers, where he saw what may be mildly described as a confused heap of skel- etons. The bodies, he says, are car- ried hither in coffins; but this is only out of regard for public decency, for the coffins have hinged lids, and being cleared of their con- tents, are returned for further use. Some~ times, as an additional point of decorum, the bodies are in shrouds, or some other species of covering; more frequently, however, they are naked, in which state they are let fall one by one, feet foremost, into the pit, mak- ing a fresh layer over every previous years mortality. One day in Naples, Mr. Cham- bers saw a poor but decently clothed man sitting in a busy thoroughfare, with a dead child upon his knees, and begging alms for the purpose of interring it with a distant ap- proach to decency. One might ask, adds the writer, if a country can have been right- eously governed or cared for where such things exist and provoke no particular remark. SOMETHING OF ITALY. ENGLISH WOMEN OF LETTERS. From The Press. i Dr. Johnsons knee, received the great Sir English Women of Letters. By Julia Kava- Walter in 1826, and told him that he and nagh. London: Hurst and Blackett. George Canning were the persons she had Miss KAVANAGH, in the volumes before most desired to see. us, as well as in the previous work which she Miss Burney may be described as the di- devoted to French Women of Letters, rect literary progenitrix of Mr. Thackeray. has had a single design to show how far, Vulgarity, says her biographer, was her for the last two centuries and more, women excellence. She had a keen eye for snobs, have contributed to the formation of the and a cruel stylus with which to transfix modern novel. The plan she adopts is to them. The Branghton family in Evelina, give a brief biography of each writer, suc- are quite equal to any vulgar set whom our ceeded by a critical analysis of her works. great humorist has pilloried. And she She begins with Apbra Behn, whose career sketched contemporary manners with much could scarcely, we suppose, be ignored: let of Mr. Thackerays minute vividness and us hope that~VIiss Kavanaghs notice of her accuracy. She, like him, dealt specially will not induce anybody to read her. We with the surface of things. It is impossible find quoted Sir Walter Scotts well-known to read her Evelina and Cecilia with- anecdote of an old lady, who remembered out admitting her to be the foundress of the Mrs. Behas works in her youth as currently school of satirical novelists whose favorite read by the young; and greatly astonished theme is the manners of the day. was she to find, at the age of eighty, that Mrs. Charlotte Smith, whose name may she was disgusted by what she had read in- perhaps be recollected as a writer of verse, nocently at fifteen. This shows a singular wrote novels also: of her there is little to change of taste; but it is to be remembered be said. Mrs. Radcliffe followedimitating that Aphra Behn was deemed very coarse Horace Walpole, and wild for the supernat- even by her contemporaries. Next in order ural. When sh~ was popular George Cole- comes Miss Fielding, sister of the greatest man wrote of novelists, whose David Simple was a famous book in its way. Miss Fielding ~vas excellent in descriptive analysis of character, but failed to show it in action. This is a common fault in the modern novel. To de- scribe is easier than to develop. Miss Field- ings successor in the series, Madame dAr- blay, better known as Miss Burney, was en- dowed with an unusual power of evolving character. She began to keep a journal at fifteen, in which she confessed every thoughtopened her whole heart; and the young diarist by this means greatly sharpened her perceptive faculties. Any- body who will take the trouble every even- ing to write a narrative of the day will be surprised to find how details multiply and apparent trifles assume significance. A lady- novelist could have no better training. Miss Kavanagh tells with great humor and gusto how demure Fanny Burney anonymously published her first novel, Evelina and how it took the world by stormand how Dr. Johnson, grimmest of literary lions, growled serene approval, and petted her at Streatham, and once actually kissed her. Madame dArblay linked together two dis- tinctive literary ages. She, who had sat Ai A novel now is nothing more Than an old castle and a creaking door, A distant hovel, Clankin~ of chainsa gallerya light Old armorand a phantom all in white And theres a novel. Mrs. Radcliffe was the genius of ruined cas- tles and solitary forests. She peopled the world with phantoms. Which of us has not in early youth extracted delightful ter- ror from The Mysteries of Udoipho? Scarcely could there be a stronger contrast between Mrs. Radcliffe and her successor, Mrs. Jnchbald, authoress of A Single Story. Nothing can be more charming in their kind than this novel and its sequel full of truth and vigor, of pathos and dra- matic power, they are well worth reading by those unacquainted with our earlier nove- lists. A strange life was Mrs. ]Inchbalds, and Miss Kavanagh narrates it wellfrom her running away at eighteen to London to be an actress to the solitary years which she devoted to repentance and religious obser- vances. We come now to writers better known. Miss Edgworth, as our authoress remarks, was by nature a teacher. She was essen 124 ENGLISH WOMEN OF LETTERS. tially ethical, and incredulous of the exist- ence of overmastering, indomitable passion. There is consequently an air of unreality about all her novels, admirable as they are. The next writer in the series, Miss Austen, is as unmistakably real. Her range of vision was limited, but she saw keenly into character. Sir Walter Scott was delighted with her. The big how-wow strain, he said, I can myself do, like any now going, but the exquisite touch which renders ordi- nary, commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment is denied to me. Miss Austen possessed this to perfection. An- other great authority, Lord Macaulay, re- marked, She has given us a multitude of characters, all, in a certain sense, common- placeall such as we meet every day. Yet they are all as perfectly discriminated as if they were the most eccentric of human be- ings. Miss Austen was the most truthful of novelists. Tenderness and pathos were the chief charae~eristics of Mrs. Opie, whose novels were very popular in their day. And what shall we say of Lady Morgan, the last and most indescribable of Miss Kavanaghs series P Airy, fanciful, daringfull of faults, yet never by any accident dullall her words and acts seemed to tell of her Irish parentage, and of her birth upon the ever- changing sea. She was her own Wild Irish Girl. Miss Kavanagh is scarcely equal to herself in her Life of Lady Mor- gan, and some of her statements are ques- tionable: we doubt, for instance, whether the severe way in which the novelist was treatedby the Literary Gazette had much to do with the success of the At hen ceum. We quite agree, however, in the general esti- mate of Lady Morganwhose conceptions were bolder and more energetic than those of any female novelist who preceded her, but whose execution was invariably weak and inaccurate. Questionless, of all the famous women whom Miss Kavanagh has illustrated, Miss Austen is the only one whose novels will live. It is scarcely necessary for us to tell our readers that our authoresss style is graceful and her taste discriminative. She has ably shown the influence of the feminine intellect upon modern narrative fiction. We quote with pleasure the eloquent sentences which close her work But new schools have arisen since she wroteare arising daily. Fiction is going on its wonderful career like Saturn, devour- ing its own children. The time when novels were few has gone by; we shall never see its return. It is the only branch of litera- ture in which women have acquired genuine distinction and exercised undoubted influ- ence. We have seen, through the most dis- tinguished amongst them, what they have effected. That their own books should now be for the most part unread and forgotten matters little. We cannot open a novel of to-day on which these past and faded nove- lists have not left their trace. And whilst the human mind, its toils, its pleasures, are worth nothing, that trace, however fine and often invisible, is worthy of attention, and record. 9 DONT BOTHER Mn.There is a capital story going round the papers touching what is called the restoration of the power of speech to an aged person, called Mary Dean, at a place called Oreston. The old lady had been dumb for fifty orsixty years, but on her being at length moved to wrath by being told to go on an errand, indignation brought back her faculty of utter- ance, and she exclaimed, Dont bother me! It is refreshing to hear of a person having been silent for half a century or more, and then break- ing silence to request that she might not he bothered. Mr. Punch has an idea that the statues of a good many deceased celebrities, whose silence has been genuine, bat to whose supposed beliefs, opinions, prophesies, and sen- timents, reference is perseveringly made by their descendants, would, if stones were known to speak, open their mouths to much the same effect as Mary Dean, in answer to the majority of appeals now made to them. Possibly Mr. Pitt and the Duke of Wellington, after hearing Conservative orations, Mr. Pox and Mr. Grat- tan, in reply to Liberal invocations, and cer- tainly George Washington, when buncombe spouters to an acre of mob are clamoring to his Shade, would be inclined, from information received, to say Dont bother me. This is the only moral Mr. Punch has been able to dis- til from an anecdote upon which about ileven thousand correspondents have desired his opin- ion, and he begs in conclusion to repeat the words of Mary Dean. 126 From The Saturday Review. THE WORKS OF THOMAS HOOD.~ THE miscellaneous works of Thomas Hood, which a not ungraceful filial piety has col- lected in the volumes before us, need very little comment on their present republica- tion. They will find many among the per- sistent readers of the light literature of the day who can look back to their original date, and recall the feeling produced by their mingled brilliancy and depth when they were circulated for the first time. And they will meet the eyes of a younger generation who knew not Hood as a living writer, or who only knew him through the exception- ally wider popularity attained by one or two of his later poems, rather because they fell in with the popular sentiment of the moment than from any intrinsic superiority over the rest of his writings. Probably, the effect produced on these two classes of readers by the perusal of the volumes in question will be various in kind and degree. The affec- tionate interest which old readers of Hood may or must feel in turning over the pages, on meeting with the familiar sparkles of wit, and the familiar subdued lustre of the truest pathos and the most exquisite imagination, is replaced in the later generation by an in- terest which must be purely critical. It is a question how far the genuine novelty and originality of Hood ~vill affect modern taste, brought up on a diet of newer turns of phrase and newer forms of humor, with a sense that he is either novel or original; but that, to some extent at least, these qualities will be still recognized in him, there is no doubt at all. The younger Mr. Hood acted very judi- ciously in feeling the way for this republica- tion by giving to the world his fathers L{fe and Letters, which were noticed in our col- umns some two years ago. It is one thing to know a writer in his works, and another (sometimes a very different thing) to know him as a man. But some compensation for not having known Hood as a oontemporary author was certainly to be found, by those who chose to look for it, in the knowledge of Hoods character as shown in his life and his correspondence. The extreme gentle- ness and playfulness of nature which sus- tained him through ill-health and needy cir- cumstances, not only keeping him afloat at ~ The Works of Thomas flood. Moxon: 1862. THE WORKS OF THOMAS HOOD. the ordinary level of human spirits, but over- flowing into infinite streams of humor and geniality, are admirably exemplified in the records of his domestic life. So is also the real strength of his worthy and thoroughly lovable character. Younger readers will do well to become acquainted with this por- trait of the favorite humorist of the last gen- eration before they begin to study his works. When they have gained an interest in the personality of Hood as a man, they will be all the readier to sympathize with him as a fanciful, quaint, poetical, burlesque, ~nd pa- thetic writer. Of all the styles of writing known to liter- ature, the humorous style is perhaps the most evanescent and volatile. Though the whole human race may tend to laughter at the same sort of things for generation after generation, yet the perfect joke of yesterday is not the perfect joke of to-day, still less of to-morrow. The domain of the mythical Joe Miller steadily advances, year after year, annexing and absorbing one witty touch or happy hit after another; and the fresher lay- ers of jocularity soon 8mother the older forms of wit in mere oblivion. Sometimes the memory of a joke outlasts its intelligi- bility; as in the instance of the celebrated joke of Hannibal before one of his great bat- tles, reported by Livy, at which neither schoolboy nor schoolmaster has ever laughed, though at the time it succeeded in amusing the staff of Hannibal. The wit of Aristoph.. anes himself, though clothed in the very perfection of language, and appreciable in all its clearness by the classical scholar, yet only in a few instances tickles the scholar as he reads it to actual laughing. And the same is the case with many of the comic scenes of Shakspeare. It is necessary either to see the personages and action upon the visible stage, or to create, by the power of imagination, a vivid mental picture of the dramatic circumstances as they wom~mld be presented on the stage, before we can alto- gether appreciate the truth and naturalness of diction which marks Shakspeares comic characters. Persons who habitually quote good things out of Shakspeare without quo- tation marks, as being, in virtue of their origin, good things for ever and notorious to everybody as such, are very much to blame. Besides puzzling or irritating the modern reader, they do, in a sense, wrong THE WORKS OF THOMAS HOOD. ural and almost perfect ease at the present day. But even the vitality of Shakspeares language is no proof that, if he were writing now-a-days, he would have expressed his meaning inexactly the same words, or chosea exactlythe same shade of meaning to express at all. Both ia the choice of the idea to he shadowed out, and in moulding and polish- ing the vehicle or form of words in which that idea was to be conveyed, he would have Shakspeare by taking his words into their exercise this gift was almost irrepressible. own mouths, instead of noting the fact that Even in the simple, manly, and touching they are citing a quotation. lit is one of the letter written from a sick bed to thank the signs of the wonderful power and simplicity grave premier, Sir Robert Peel, for one of of Shakspeare that his prose dialogue should the most graceful acts of ministerial kind- be so elastic in diction as to maintain a nat- ness upon record, Hood was unable to refrain from a pun. In his ordinary writings they overflowed from his pen with a nearly con- secutive inconsecutiverfess. To the class of persons whom a single pun offends, as dis- turbing the due concentration of the intellect upon the real meaning of the language used, Hoods manner of building up an illogical series of ideas by the side of a logical one must have been painful in the extreme. To keep pace ~vith Hoods dou~le intent required followed most accurately the ever-moving from the reader a mental operation analagous and volatile fashion of his own time. to the process of counting the money in his In the particular department of humorous pocket with one hand while using the other writing to which so many of Hoods produc- to carry out some entirely ~istinct act of tions belong, the fickleness of human taste volition, by which Robert Houdin taught~ is most strongly shown. A pun is emphat- himself the first rudiments of conjuring. It ically a thing of the moment, and fades al- might almost be said that Hood reduced to most as soon as the explosion of laughter a science the counterpoint of j)unningso which is caused by the flash of its absurd harmoniously does a running accompani- double meaning has died away into silence. ment of all the chords of sublunary nonsense The very fame of Joe Miller, as the mythical go along with the melody or air of actual owner of all stale jokes, only rests upon a sense in his comic verse or prose. Yet, if deep law of naturethat no man can hon- our view is correct of the quick evanescence estly laugh twice at the same punand its of this species of verbal wit, is even the corollary, that no man can honestly claim a greatest~.mastery over such wit sufficient to laugh from his neighbors for a pun which save his memory from oblivion? Not of it- has been made and published once before. self alone. But in Hood the extraordinary Laughter at the repetition of a bad pun only combination of real poetical genius, taste, grows grimmer and grimmer upon each suc- and imagination, with this irrepressible cessive compulsion; and the neatest joke quick-wittedness, raised the level of his non- which depends upon mere parallelism of sense in proportion with the height of the sound or verbal duplicity soon meets with a serious side of his words. The truest poetry reception of the most profound indifference, is always that which admits of the best par- The better the pun, the sooner it dies out of odies; and Hoods method enfolded both the favor, by the very fact of that pungency and poetry and its parody in the same language. prettiness which make it so instantaneously Strike out the nonsense, and the appropriate.. and universally known when once it has been ness, frequently the elegance, or even beauty, uttered. And, in dying, it leaves barren the of the sense remains. It is very probable soil upon which it grew. It has extracted that a lesser admixture of this quick wit in the risible virtue of that particular contrast Hoods composition would have raised him of unsuitable ideas at once and forever; or even higher as a serious poet; but it is cer- ~tt least until some new discovery in the tam that the genuine dash of poetry which chemistry of wit enables the scientific joker generally pervades even the lightest of his tocombine its bases with some third ingre- comicalities elevates them out of the merely dient of Attic salt, and so produce some trivial and burlesque. A good instance of novel explosive substance to electrify or his real eloquence in nonsense is to be found amuse a more and more fastidious world. in his Ode to Joseph Huine. As long as Hood was endowedwith a gift of punning the parliamentary memory of that great almost without parallel, and his tendency to economist is green, the following lines may 127 128 well live as his most appropriate, half-comic, half-serious encomium, in the hearts of the English people In Parliament no star shines more or bigger, And yet thou dost not care to cut a fi~ ure; Equally art thou eloquent and able, Whether in showing how to serve the nation, Or layin~ its petitions on the Table Of multiplicath~n. In motion thou art second unto none, Though fortune on thy motions seems to frown, For though you set a number down You seldom carry one. Great at speech thou art, though some folks cough, But thou art greatest at a paring off. But never blench, Although in stir4ng up corruptions worms You make some factions Vulgar as certain fractions, Almost reduced unto their lowest terms, Go on, reform, diminish, and retrench; Go on, fdr ridicule not caring Sift on from 6ne to nine with all their noughts, And make state ciphers eat up their own orts, And only in thy saving he unsparing: At soldiers uniforms make awful rackets, Dont trim though, but untrim their jackets. Allow the tin mines no tin tax, Cut off the Great Seals wax! Dock all the dockyards, lower masts and sails, Search foot by footthe Infantrys amounts, Look into all the Cavalrys accounts, And crop their horses tails. Look well to Woolwidh and each money vote, Examine all the cannons charges well, And those who found th Artiller~ compel To forge twelve-pounders for a five pound note. Watch Sandhurst too, its debts and its cadets Those military pets. Take Armyno,.take Leggy tailors Down to the Fleet, for no one hut a nincom, Out of our nations narrow income, Would furnish such wide trousers to the sail- ors. Next take, to wonder him, The Master of the horses horse from under him Retrench from those who tend on Royal ills Wherewith to gild their pills. And tell the Staghounds Master he must keep The deer, & c., cheap. Close as new brooms Scrub the Bed Chamber Grooms; Abridge the Master of the Ceremonies Of his very moneys: In short, at every salary have a pull; And when folks come for pay On quarter-day, Stop half; and make them give receipts in full. Hood was not successful as a simple story- teller. Tylney Halt is not a good novel; and the smaller novelettes collected in these volumes do not indicate any sustained power of construction which might have made him THE WORKS OF THOMAS HOOD. tell another story better. Such power of drawing character as he had is better shown where his narrative is clothed in an epistol- ary form, than where the personages and in- cidents are brought directly upon the scehe; and in spite of Pamela and Clarissa Har- lowe it may be laid down, as a general rule, that the use of a series of letters as the ve- hicle for the story argues a weakness in the novelist. The direct reaction of personal character and circumstances upon each other forms the broader, if the more dangerous, ground on which the power of a great novel- writer is to be tried. The characters of Tylney Hall are no particular characters at all; and though, in Hoods narrative epis- tles, a certain piquancy and individuality of manner attach to the several letter-writers, it would be entirely impossible to predicate from their style or their sentiments how they would behave under any imaginable circum.- stances of real life. Here, too, it is proba- ble that Hoods power was, to some extent, spoiled by the very versatility of his clever- ness, which prevented more absolute concen- tration upon the main idea. Had he been less peculiarly gifted as a humorist, he might have been more effective as a drama- tist or a romancer. Still, for the purposes of collecting an exhaustive memorial of his fathers talents, Mr. Hood hs very rightly republished Tylney Hall and the other sto- ries. The same justification hardly applies to such obviously ephemeral bits of non- sense as the mixture of verses and patter on the ship-launch, St. Valentines Day, and the Lord Mayors show. Less vulgar, but not much less slight, than the stuff which delights the frequenters of modern music- halls, these trivialities should have slept in the past with the vocal entertainments through which alone their author intended them to meet the public ear. Of Hood, as of other poets and authors, it is best that it should he said He kept his worst; his best he gave. And when the worst was composed only for a special purpose, which it probably an- swered well enough, it is unfair upon the author that it should rise up in judgment against him among his collected works, now that he has no power left of putting his own waste papers into the fire. It is the only shortcoming in Mr. Thomas Hoods merits THE WORKS OF THOMAS HOOD. as editor that he has not learnt the last and greatest artand we will say, the last and greatest touch of filial pietythe art to blot. Yet we might point to many little gems of poetry, of gracefulness and wit, for the reproduction of which we are greatly indebted to Mr. Hood the younger. Here is a specimen, perhaps the lightest and pret- tiest ado aboutk nothing ever written in a young ladys album A pretty task, Miss 5, to ask A Benedictine pen, That cannot quite at freedom write Like those of other men. No lovers plaint my Muse must paint To fill this pages span, But be correct, and recollect Im not a single man. Pray, only think, for pen and ink, How hard to get along, That may not turn on words that burn, Or love, the life of song! Nine Muses, if I chooses, I May woo all in a clan, But one, Miss S, I darent address Im not a single man. Scribblers unwed, with little head May eke it out with heart, And in their lays it often plays A rare first fiddle part. They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, But if 1 so hegan, I have my fears ahout my ears Im not a single man. Upon your cheek I may not speak, Nor on your lip he warm; I must he ~vise about your eyes, And formal with your form; Of all that sort of thing, in short, On T. H.. Baylys plan, I must not twine a single line Im not a single man. A watchmans part compels my heart To keep you off its beet; And I might dare as soon to swear At you as at your feet. I cant expire in passions fire, As other poets can My life (shes hy) wont let me die Im not a single man. Shut out from love, denied a dove, Forbidden how and dart, Without a groan to call my own, With neither hand nor heart; To hymen vowed, and not allowed To flirt een with your fan; Here end, as just a friend, I must Im not a single man. Truly the pen that wrote these lines was in very gracious fooling. WusrrEwAsHIxG.The mania for rehabilitat- ing the black sheep of history is a curious fea- ture of our times. Philosophically considered, it is an effect of the wide-spread scepticism which has crept over the public mind with regard to the popular and traditional representation of the great characters and events of the past. The faith in the accuracy of historical portrai- ture has been rudely shaken, and there has sprung up a growing anxiety to test its genu- ineness by recurring to authentic and unim- peachable sources of information. It is the merit of Mr. Pro ude that he typifies this lauda- ble desire. But the task of dissecting the mate- rials of which history is composed is one which requires a cool and sound judgmentabove all, aj udgmcnt which is proof against the tempta- tion to make the facts disclosed, however stub- born, square with some plausible or hastily adopted theory. Without this, the most con- scientious research is no guarantee against the most mischievous perversion of the truth. There is, of course, a class of shallow sciolists who, in invitin their readers to reverse the judgments of former generations, are actuated merely by an ambition to broach something new or paradoxical. Indeed, it would almost seem that the chance of receiving the posthumous honors of whitewash bears a direct ratio to the THIRD SERIES. LIVING AG1~. 972. crime~ a man has committed, or the vices he has in his lifetime indulged. Doubtless, in the next century, some enthusiast will arise to de- clare that the record of the I~ugeley poisonings is to he studied as a palimpsest, and that the late Mr. William Palmer was the model of what a husband, brother, and friend should be.Sat- urday Review. JOsEPHINEIf the Duke of Leuchtenberg should ultimately be chosen to occupy the va- cant throne of Otho, it will add to the singular- ity of the fortune which since the fall of Napo. leon has attended the descendants of Josephine. That fortune seems to justify the superstition, which regarded Josephine as the star of Napo- leons destiny. No royalty is now to be found among the relatives of Napoleon, except in the descendants of his discarded wife.. The grand- son of Josephine is Emperor of France. An~ other of her descendants was married to th~ Queen of Portugal; of her granddan~hters, one was Queen of Sweden, another still lives a~ Empress Dowager of Brazil. Her great-grand- son may be King of Greece.Seturday Review. 130 THE EDINBURGH REVIEW ON THE SUPERNATURAL. From The Saturday Review. i stry; and the same tendency is observa~ble, THE EDINBURGH REVIEW ON THE in some degree at least, in the haif-philo- SUPERNATURAL. sophical, half-theological discussions which UNEDUCATED men class all phenomena of are at present in vogue. which they have any conception under three An article on the Supernatural ~*has re- heads. There are, first, familiar phenomena, cently appeared in the Edinburgh Review, in such as the falling of an apple to the ground, which an attempt is made to bring miracles. which they do not think require any ex- to a certain extent, into the common cate- planation; secondly, strange and striking gory of natural phenomena~ Of the three events, such as a great national pestilence, heads under which the uneducated classify or the sudden death of a healthy man, which events, science has long ago united the two they regard as the results of a special inter- first. On the one hand, she brings the fall- position of Providence; and, lastly, miracles, ing of the apple under a general law, in spite and the supernatural generally. This clas- of its familiarity; and, on the other hand, sification is, of course, made very roughly, she brings plague and sudden death under and, in most cases, quite unconsciously; but general laws, in spite of their strangeness, it is, nevertheless, certain that, in their eyes, Miracles remain, and it is now attempted to every event which they observe, or can im- bring these into the same list. Hitherto, the agine, would come under one of these three human reason has had its choice of two heads. The uneducated man, therefore, does courses in reference to miracles. It might not explicitly recognize any such thing as eitler deny them, and say that the accounts a law of nature. Implicitly, it is true, he which we have are the products of delusion does. If he were asked why an apple falls or imposture, or it might bow the head, and to the ground, he would probably answer, admit that its domain is limited. But the because it is natural; and if pressed for Edinburgh reviewer thinks that he has dis- an explanation, would give it in some nearly covered a middle way. He believes in mir- identical proposition, such as that it always acles, but denies that they are supernatural. does fall, and must as a matter of course. Superhuman he admits them to be; but this In this answer there lies hid, no doubt, the he holds to be something quite distinct and notion of a natural law; but this notion has different from supernatural. The latter not with him assumed any explicit shape. It word, he thinks, implies that the laws of na- is this absence of any desire of finding a law ture are suspended or violated, whereas the which marks, above all things, the contrast former only implies that they are applied in between an uncultivated and a cultivated a certain way by the divine will; and he mind. A cultivated mind craves, in every contends that our only or chief difficulty in case, a rational or scientific method which conceiving a miracle arises from our suppos- may connect or underlie phenomena. Where ing without any reason that it involves a a scientific method is not attainable, it con- violation of the laws of nature. To sum tents itself with an unscientific method; but up in his own words, The inteflectual yoke it does so with an uneasy spirit, and haunted involved in the common idea of the super- with a desire to seize the hidden clue, which natural is a yoke which men impose on them- a true imagination tells it must be some- selves. Obscure language and confused where discoverable. We have seen this thought are the main causes of the diffi- strikingly exemplified in almost every prov- culty. ince of thought. Naturalists have long col- The case which the reviewer puts is this. lected species upon species of every kind of Man, he says, is acquainted with a certain animal, and have arranged them by their ex- number of natural laws, and is able to use ternal marks, or, where possible, by their in- this knowledge so as to bring about certain ternal organization; but they have been results. Civilized man can accomplish things possessed by the longing to discover some which to a rude people appear miraculous, more binding link, and some more real and in all probability, with the advance of method than any external marks can supply. knowledge his power will be immensely in- The same feeling inspires the physical phi- creased. God acts in the same way. He losopher in his researches into the nature of knows all the laws of the universe, and h. magnetism, electricity, and the laws of chem- w Living Age, No. 967. THE EDINBURGH REVIEW ON THE SUPERNATURAL. uses this knowledge to work what are called miracles, just as man uses his knowledge to produce results which are not miraculous. Now, if he goes on, there is nothing which can be called supernatural, or a violation of the laws of nature in the case of man, why should we suppose that there is in the case of God? A miracle is superhuman, but it is not supernatural or a violation of the laws of nature. This is, we believe, a fair sum- mary of the reviewers case, and it is worth while to consider whether the sceptics dii- ficulties are really smoothed, as the writer imagines, by this way of putting the matter. In the first place, we may observe that, in the position thus taken up, a verbal ques- tion and a real question are involved. If we admit, as every one does admit, that a miracle means something effected by a spe- cial interposition of the divine will, which could not be effected by man, and which would not have happened in the ordinary course of things, it is clear that, whether we prefer to call it supernatural or super- human, is a merely verbal question. The importance which the reviewer attributes to the word supernatural is, in fact, a signal instance of a difficulty brought on by that confusion of language against which he protests. He begins his article by a discus- sion upon the meaning of the word, and, in order to get at this, he is obliged to analyze the meaning of the word nature. He comes to this conclusion: We must con- ceive it as including every agency which we see entering, or can conceive capable of en- tering, into the causation of the world. First and foremost among these is the agency of our own will and mind. Yet strange to say, all reference to this agency is often tacitly excluded when we speak of the laws of Na- ture. It may be remarked, in the first place, that if by nature or natural things is meant every agency which we conceive ca- pable of entering into the causation of the world, then it is not true that first and fore- most among these is our own will and mind. Obviously, to any one who believes in a God, first and foremost would be the will of God. If, as we presume the writer meant to do (though quite inconsistently), we exclude the notion of a God, then in one sense of the word nature, it is true, that first and fore- most comes our own will. But the surpris- ing thing is, that the reviewer should have 1W1 observed the inconsistency in the use of the word nature, to which he adverts, without at the same time fairly recognizing that the word is used in two ways, each of which is equally common. Ia one sense, the word is used, as stated by him, to include man and his agency; and here the natural stands in opposition to the divine, or supernat- ural. In another sense the word is used to exclude man, and here the natural is used as opposed to the artificial. So far from there being anything strange in the use of the word, it may safely be said that, in or- dinary language, it is the more common of the two. Did the reviewer never hear a person say that he preferred nature to art, or that the poet leaves the city to commune with nature? Here the agency of man is excluded from and put in opposition to the notion of nature, but there is nothing strange or inaccurate in this way of speaking. The reviewer quotes rather contemptuously a distinguished living lecturer upon physical science, who fell into this supposed error, when he remarked in a course of lectures upon heat, that, there is no spontaneous- ness in Nature; but, if instead of carping at this remark, the reviewer had set himself fairly to consider it in all its bearings, it would have led him to a solution of the dif- ficulty. Coleridge has a similar observation in the Aids to Reflection: In Nature there is no origin. This notion, that in nature there is no spontaneousness or no origin, lies at the bottom of all uses of the word nature. We have given the two most common of these uses. In one of them, na- ture is opposed to those phenomena which are accomplished by the originating will of man; in the other, it is opposed to those phenomena which are accomplished by the originating will of God. The opposite to the natural is, in the one case, the artificial, in the other, the supernaturaL This distinction the reviewer has failed to grasp, and he is constantly brought into difficulty by his assumption that the natural and supernatural are in every case properly opposed to each other. When the meanings of the word nature are once adequately seen, the futility of debating about the use of the words superhuman and supernatural is apparent. When God interferes to work a miracle, the agency is supernatural as well as superhuman. It is simply to avoid ambiguity that we do not apply the word supernatural to the agency of man as standing in opposition to nature 132 THE EDINBURGH REVIEW ON THE SUPERNATURAL. in Its narrower sense. Custom has deter- mined that when a thing is called super- natural, i.e., above nature, we shall under- stand nature to be used in the wider sense which includes man; but if custom had not so determined, there would be no impropri- ety in speaking of the action of man as su- pernatural, inasmuch as it, too, is above nature, taking the word in its narrower sense. It is, therefore, a mistake to suppose that, in common language, it is implied that the modes of operation differ in the case of God and of man. The fundamental notion of the word nature is a dead chain of cause and effect, and when man and his doings are included, it is only because the free will of man is dropped out of sight while the atten- tion is fixed on the superior free will of God. In discussing the meaning of a word, we must, of course, waive all metaphysical theories. We must not inquire whether there really is such a thing, on the one hand, as free will in man, or, on the other, as natural law con- trasted with the free will of God. We said above that a real question was involved, as well as a verbal question. The real question is this. Does a miracle imply a violation of natural laws? Now, before entering upon this question, we cannot for- bear to express some surprise that the re- viewer has not stated the obligations under which he lies to Mr. Mansel. Mr. Mansels Essay on Miracles stands, indeed, among the list of books at the head of the article and is quoted in the article; but the writer has not informed his readers that almost every- thing which he says on the subject of the vio- lation of nature is to be found in that essay. The reviewer has possibly not read Mr. Mansels Bampton Lectures, hut as the mat- ter is put more concisely there, we will quote a passage from the Sixth Lecture instead of quoting from the essay A miracle, in one sense, need not neces- sarily be a violation of the laws of nature. God may make use of natural instruments acting after their kind, as man himself does, within his own sphere, in the production of artificial combinations. The great question, however, still remains, fins God ever, for religious purposes, exhibited phenomena in certain relations which the obseryed course of natuie and the artistic skill of man are unable to bring about or account for? Now, so far as the position taken up by the reviewer differs from what is here said, it differs for the worse. In the first place, he omits to qualify his statement with the words in one sense; and, in the second place, lao thinks that the difficulties are smoothed so that, if the question remains, it is no len- ger formidable. The impQrtance of the words in one sense consists in this, that when men like flume talk about a violation of na- ture, they include under this term the very notion which the reviewer fancies will rec- oncile them to the miracles. Their way of speaking is very possibly an inaccurate way of speaking, but this is a verbal question which we will not discuss. It is, neverthe- less, quite certain that the notion of God coming in and applying natural laws to ef- fect a particular purpose, just as men apply them, would, in flumes eyes, constitute a violation of nature. If this is admitted, it must also be admitted that Mr. Mansel is right in thinking that the great question still remains. There is, however, as we have said, a real question involved. Mr. Mansel says that we may take the phrase a viola-. tion of natural law to mean that a particu- lar cause should be made to produce an ah- normal effect. We may add, that it would be a violation of natural law if that which is usually a cause is made to produce no ef- feet. Now, it is quite true that we can im- agine a miracle to be performed without any such violation of nature as this. The re- viewers mistake is in supposing that it is only a violation of nature in this strict sense of the word to which sceptics object. When wO are told that God bade the sun to stand still upon Gibeon, and the moon in the val- ley of Ajalon, we may picture to ourselves this miraculous phenomenon in two ways. We may suppose either that the ordinary laws of motion were suddenly suspended, or that other laws of which we know nothing were brought into play to overrule the ordi- nary laws, which, but for such intervention, would have remained in operation. But it seems to us to be a pure delusion tosuppose that, in the eyes of the followers of flume, there would be an important difference in these two views. The reviewer, indeed, in some passages would almost seem to fancy that, by dwelling upon the instrumentality of natural laws, he gets rid of the notion of a special interposition of Providence. But, if so, this is a baseless fancy. If the notion of a special interposition is set aside, we can- not have a true miracle. The interposition may be as remote as we please; but noth- ing is gained by treating it as remote in- stead of immediate. As a matter of fact, the interposition is represented in some of the miracles as more or less remote, as, for in- stance, when The Lord caused the sea to go back by a strong east wind all night; but the character of the miracle is not es- sentially altered by being thus put hack. We can conceive it put back many such steps, but we gain nothing by it. It is of no use to add links to the chain if the chaja is not pulled somewhere. SYMPATHY OF ENGLiSHMEN WITH THE NORTH AND SOUTH. 133 IN the subjoined communication (written some months ago) Professor Newman pro- duces the most prominent features in the struggle between the United States Govern- ment and the slaveholding rebels To the Editor of the London American: Sir,In regard to the American civil war, few writers of this country have done justice to the cause of the North. Because the North has not yet pronounced that slavery shall be exterminated, they overlook that the war is on the question whether slavery shall be crippled. Out ~f this fallacy, which pro- nounced the combatants to deserve equal sympathy from the bystanders, has mainly arisen all that injustice of English public men a ad public writers, which has naturally nec- essarily, and, I think, most reasonably exas- perated th~ Northerners. I beg permission to call attention to the broad and notorious facts, which have been so sadly overlooked and so shamefully disguised. Mr. Lincoln, as candidate for the Presi- dency, pledged himself not to permit exten- sion of slavery; Mr. Breckinridge was pledged to extend it. When Mr. Lincoln as elected, South Carolina rebelled. ,The war was begun by the South because they would not have as President a man pledged to oppose the extension of slavery; clearly, then, the war is on this question primarily. None are so good judges of its tendency as the Abolitionists of the North, who, till now, have stood aloof from all Federal politics: who indeed treated the policy of Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Seward with disgust and contempt, until the North rose in majesty and might i$o take up ~var in real earnest against the attack of the South. Thereupon the Abo- litionists heartily joined President Lincoln; and their most eloquent leader, Wendell Phillips, spoke with enthusiasm for the ~var. The vast exertions of Massachusetts, which is the soul and heart of liberty, speak to the same effect, and guarantee, if guarantee were needed, that the victory of the North will be the victory of freedom. But the insurgents had moved a second vital question, whether the States shall es- tablish a right to secede from the Union at their own will and pleasure, and, indeed by the perjury and treason of their Executive. This second ground drew the whole Demo- cratic party of the North into the war, al- though it had previously been the ally and tool of the South. President Lincoln is President not solely of the Republican party which elected him, but also of the Dem- ocratic party which opposed him; and he has to carry on this most dangerous and dif WHICH SIDE SHOULD CLAIM THE SYM- ficult war by their joint energies. It took PATHIES OF ENGLISHMEN? forty years in England to convert us into willingness to emancipate ofir colonial slaves, when it did not need to cost us more than a moderate and a merely pecuniary effort; if the last twelve months have not yet converted the Democratic party, especiahy while lien- tucky holds to the Union, what Englishman can wonder or gravely blame them? The President finds an ample ground and necessity f~or the war in that grievance which the whole North feels, namely, they are con- tending for law against lawlessness and trea- son, and for national existence against a dis- integrated principle which would reduce them to a rope of sand. It suffices to display this ground of war, and not to alienate a large part of the North by avowing prematurely the other ground, and tl~ ulterior objects now legally possible, since rebels can no longer appeal to the Constitution. I trust we shall ere long, hear that the progress of opinion has justified President Lincoln in proclaim- ing that slavery not only niust be stopped, not only driven hack, but must be destroyed; but meanwhile, whatever profession of war the North makes, success in the war ensures the immediate crippling, and at least early extirpation of slavery. It is, therefore, to me an inexplicable wonder if any Englishman, not led astray by despotic fanaticism, can fail to give his warmest sympathies to the North. But now for my practical point. Our statesmen and our press have greatly exas- perated those who are naturally our best and most valuable friendsthe New England- ers and the agriculturists of the great West. Earl Russell is said to have declared that the North was fighting for empire, the South for independence; when, in fact, the North fights for civilization against barbarism, for law against lawlessness, for the responsibility of public officers against the impunity of per- jured treason, for humanity against cruelty, for coherent civilized institutions against in- terminable anarchy. After pretending to desire in 1856 to exterminate privateering on the grounds of humanity, our Govern- ment has gone out of its way tenderly to re- serve for the rebels the right of having pri- vateers! It has given to them, before they had proved their strength, the right of buy- ing arms from us; which the same ministers (Lords Palmerston and Russell) refused to Hungary after she had beaten Austria in a good cause, and wanted notWng but arms to beat off Russia also. It began to arm Canada last August; and the Times proclaimed that it was done against the Northerners. It has never uttered one distinct word to make the South hopeless of receiving active aid from us; and all through 134 the absurd fury in which this nation put it- self because Captain Wilkes did against us the hundredth part of what we have done against America, the ministerial papers, viz., the Times, the Morning Post, the Globe, the Observerhave been foremost in bitter zeal, often bloodthirsty. All our action, and all the writing of Whig and Tory newspapers, has teaded to make those who are fighting a noble battle for law first, and for freedom next, to believe that we are seeking to pick a quarrel with them now that their hands are full. I ask, then, is it not high time for those who desire the overthrow of slavery and the success of a righteous cause to express their sympathy with the North by a great national declaration, which shall not only be heard in Parliament and stop the shameful tendencies to interfere for t~ft~ benefit of the South, but also be so heard in America as to discourage the South and reconcile to us the hearts of the North P If we delay this until decisive victory crowns the Northern arms, the act will not be so acceptable; nor so easily be believed sincere. Respectfully yours, F. W. NEWMAN. From The London Review, 13 Dec. MR. GLADSTONE AND PROF. NEWMAN. THE Chancellor of the Exchequer has been engaged in a gentle Platonic flirtation with Mr. Francis Newman, in a newspaper corespondence. The cause of the eucounter between two spirits so unworldly was a cen- sure passed upon Mr. Gladstone by Mr. Newman for his recent speech at Newcastle. Mr. Newman is a terrible and uncompromis- ing Northerner; and he comes forth breath- ing fire and fury against the sugar-plantations of the South. On the other hand, the Chan- cellor of her majestys Exchequerlooking on all war from the point of view of an eco- nomical archangelhas, nevertheless, some sympathy foil the courage, the chivalry, the military order of the Southern States. iDis- tracted by counter impulses, Mr. Gladstone sighs, and at intervals contradicts hims~lf. Yes; it is godlike to hate slavery, but these Southerners remind us in an affecting way of the Homeric and patriarchal ages. The bat- tle that is waging on the plains of Rich- inond is as picturesque as if it were a battle for a second Troy. All war is wrong and foolish, and President Lincoln is as impru- dent in persisting in an ill-judged attempt to conquer back the loyalty of the South, as Menelaus was unwise in spending ten long years in the chase of a thankless Helen. But if there is to be a war, who would not be MR. GLADSTONE AND PROF. NEWMAN. amongst the picturesque hosts of Richmond that motley multitude of retainers and of slaves led on by their chieftains, and bound together by the indissoluble ties of family affection P Mr. Gladstone is too sin- cere a believer in the blessings of Christian- ity and civilization not to detest the shed- ding of blood. Nor is war merely in his eyes ~inchristianthe keeper of her majes- tys Exchequer and the author of the Com- mercial Treaty knows that it is also eminently expensive. The North have no business to oppress the South, nor have they any right to issue such quantities of paper money. All this Mr. Gladstone sees and carefully ob- serves. Nor does it escapea classical and artistic eye that the scene on the James River, by a skilful imagination, might al- most have been made to do duty for the Scamander. Led away by this Homeric simplicity of mind, Mr. Gladstone gave vent a~Newcastle, some short time ago, to some admiration for Mr. Jefferson Davis and the South, which smacked, half of the classical student and half of the sentimental cavalier. Where slavery-is concerned, Mr. Francis Newman is a terrible and uncompromising Ronadhead. Rushing upon Mr. Gladstonein the columns of the Star, he smote him hip and thigh, with the zeal and the enthusiasm of an Iconoclast. Loud rang Mr. Frances Newmans sword and tongue. Crash went Mr. Gladstones painted glass. The South are a nation of slave-owners and slave-dealers, and a chosen people must have no dealings with the fol- lowers of sin. Let the fate of Agag be reserved also for Jefferson Davis. Bind their nobles with chains and their princes with cords of iron. Such, or to some such, purpose, ran doubtless the sentiments of that Abolitionist of Abolitionists, Mr. Fran- cis Newman. XVell might Mr. Gladstone tremble, for the tornado was upon him. On reading what Mr. Francis Newman thought about the South, and his half- avowed sympathy for the South, he felt probably something of what the worthy prelate Laud might have felt if he had in- cautiously said something foolish in the presence of some red-hot Oliver Cromwell. What Mr. Gladstone experienced at finding himself so treated was doubtless half a feel- ing of shame and half a feeling of martyr- dom. Mr. Gladstone is one of the first men in England, and Mr. Newman is an humble professor in the University of London. Mr. Gladstone is, or is supposed to be, a High Churchman of credit and renown, who can ascend the highest theological eminences with all the energy of a pilgrim, yet with all the unruffled placidity of a saint. Mr. MR. GLADSTONE AND PROF. NEWMAN. Newmans religious opinions are well known. is a slaveholding power, a monster which is At first sight, the two men have little in anxious to be allowed to rear its monstrous common. Yet a secret impulse led Mr. head among nations. It is an offence against Gladstone to listen to the voice of Professor public morality for a statesman of Mr. Francis Newman, when Mr. Disraeli him- Gladstones position to speak at all of such self might have spent his taunts in vain a power without declaring abhorrence of without eliciting a reply. It was one Deep it; or at least to speak in such a tone that calling to another. The critic of Homer he can for a moment be suspected of desir- and the avenger of the wrongs of Helen ing its success. Mr. Gladstone and Mr. heard from afar, and recognized the cry of Newman represent respectively two large Homers veteran translator. In the House parties, the opinions of which about the of Commons, the right honorable member present American struggle are somewhat for the University of Oxford is proud, and one-sided and unfair. The shield has two sometimes intolerable, to his equals and his sides, and each will only look at the side competitors. But now all pride was laid nearest to itself. The one maintains, with aside. It is with exquisite humility and the Mr. Gladstone, that the North has taken most unfeigned modesty that Mr. Gladstone upon it a hopeless and destructive enter- rides, like Lady Godiva, through the regions prise; and that the South is a chivalrous, of literature. He is no more the mighty and worthy to he an independent nation. framer of the Budget; he is a neophyte, That is one side of the shield. The other proud of his powers, yet pretending that he side is the side to which those confine their is willing to be taught. Trippingly, deli- view who would encourage the North to cately, tremblingly the maiden Chancellor convert this fratricidal conflict into a wild of the Exchequer approaches the confess- and flaming propaganda of anti-slavery sional of this literary father. Tell me, my principles. In every sense slavery is a sad father, he seems to say, tell me, in the name and brutal thing. Since the days of Wil- of Homer, have I sinned? It must be con- berforce every liberal-minded Englishman fessed that the picture is not without its looks forward to its abolition whenever the scenic effect. It was Henry IV. kneeling, day comes for abolishing it with safety. But with reverence on his lips but with defiance it is not without solicitude that many regard at heart, to kiss the Popes toe, only that the possible perils of a military scheme of in Gladstones case, if common report be emancipation. Mr. Newman and Mr. Glad- true, it was the believer who was the suppli- stone are both inspired by ideas which are ant. And it must also be acknowledged, noble but eminently unpractical. The one that in both instances the suppliant party detests slavery as the other detests war. meets with the same kind of humiliating Slavery is a terrible evil, and one destined, rebuff. Itis true that Mr. Gladstone takes perhaps, to vanish from the civilized face of advantage of his position, and in the very the earth. So, on the other hand, is war. middle of his homage, slily manages to ad- Yet Mr. Newman forgets that even the sud- minister to the venerable literary pontiff a den extinction of slavery may be too dearly most provoking poke in the ribs. The pro- bought, and Mr. Gladstone forgets that fessor might, however, have been appeased there are some great questions which, when by the sight of so eminent a statesman on it comes to the last, can only be solved by his knees. Without appearing to be in the war. least edified or conciliated by the spectacle, One of the most serious features of the he at once proceeds to inflict condi~a pun- present struggle is, as is suggested by Pro- ishment on the imposing sinner before him. fessor Newman, the universal antipathy to In the first place, he sent Mr. Gladstones England expressed openly all over the Amer- letter to the daily papers, a step which, how- ican continent. We certainly seem to run a ever gratifying to the readers of daily papers, risk of being la nation Noth- can hardly have been calculated to delight ing we do suits anybody. As far as Amer- Mr. Gladstone himself. In the second place ica is concerned, we are not sure that we after acknowledging the unexpected pleas- have not partially to blame ourselves, if, in- ure of hearing from the Chancellor of the deed, in the presence of the ruffianly excite- Exchequerhe boldly rates him for what we meat that has lately prevailed against her suppose, in the language of the day, would be on the other side of the Atlantic, England termed his Southern proclivities. He threat- can he called upon to excuse or to reproach ens the Government with the imminent dan- herself. Possibly, whatever this country ger of the hatred of the whole American could have done would have been taken in race. More than this, he taunts them with evil part Yet it should not be forgotten their selfishness in discouraging insurrec- that the universal feeling that pervades tion in the New, while they encourage it in England jn favor of the dissolution of the the Old World. The Southern Confederacy Union is not unseen abroad. It is put down THE POLICY OF A NEGRO ARMY FOR THE NORTH. to that spirit of selfishness which is sup- posed to he the key to Englands whole pol- icy. There is some truth in it. We have not shown any generous love for the Ameri- can stars and stripes in the hour of their danger. Whether we followed the dictates of mere human nature in acquiescing with something very much akin to satisfaction in the approaching disruption of a great em- pire, or whether that half-satisfaction was ungenerous and unworthy, will be decided one day by a posterity that will be able to judge better than we. Mr. Newman is cer- tainly so far right, that little good is to be expected from its having been made evident in the eyes of all nations. From The Spactator, 18 Dec. THE POLICY OF A NEGRO ARMY FOR THE NORTH. Ir the statesmen of the North had any moral perspective in their minds, if they could see the advantage of having a point of sight to which all their efforts should converge, if they could appreciate the vigor lent to the intellect even of inferior politicians hy keep- ing constantly on the look-out for opportu- nities to further one great purpose, they would now, we think, be fairly prepared to take up a new policy of inconceivable im- portance which events have fairly forced upon them, and which might bear fruit in a gradual solution of the most difficult prob- lem of their destiny. The first negro regiments have heen raised. They have shown remarkable spirit and re- markable subordination. One of them, raised hy General Jim Lane, won the day against heavy odds in a little engagement at Island Mounds on the 27th October. A company of the rawest negro recruits sailed up the Sapelo, in Florida, under Colonel Beard, early in November, twice landed under a heavy fire and dispersed their enemies, and behaved altogether with the most ardent en- thusiasm and courage during this, their first military trial. The negro volunteers are as eager and forward as the American recruits seem now to be reluctant. What is more, they are much more amenable to discipline than the native Americans. There is just the difference in caste between them and their white officers, which is the secret of all effective military discipline. And for them now, even more than for the Northern white lThorers, there is beginning to be a purpose in the war. Every State now gained for the North will strengthen the foundation of their freedom, and extend the area of.their own safety. The difference in the future of the negro race between a South closely hemmed in by a free and compact Union, and a South strong enough to dominate a divided continent, will he enormous. None can now have the same stake in the contest as the negroes themselves. All this is beyond the possibility of question, and is quite clear to the negroes of Port Royal and of Kansas themselves. But the statesmen of the North have failed as yet to see the hearing of it. They are drifting hlindly, and almost reluc- tantly, into an emancipation policy; and so may lose half the political fruits of it. If they make this the recognized centre of their policyas it must hecome, if the war lasts, its obscure unrecognized centrethey might grasp a hundred opportunities which would otherwise escape them. And especially by a comprehensive consistency of policy (which it is almost hopeless to expect from them) they might now turn impending anarchy at home and military languor into cQherent pur- pose and regimental zeal. At present this truth has scarcely glimmered on the state- craft of the shiftliass American Cabinet. The New York Tribune complains that even the negro regiment which won its military rank at Island Mounds, is at present no part of the national army, hut an irregular levy, exposed even by the laws of war to the fate of guerillas taken in arms without author- ity. We know well what fate this would he at the hands of the South. And the New York Tribune is right in saying that the very first step of the Union should be to give all the negro regiments the full privileges of Union soldiers, and absolutely enforce the treatment of prisoners taken from amongst them by the South in all respects as prison- ers of war. Without this step how is it even possible to expect negro recruits for a flag which disowns them at the first risk? The simple truth is that the value of a negro army has not yet dawned upon the Federal poli- ticians. And Federal generals are still per.. mitted to issue such pieces of official insan- ity, as this of a General Boyle, in Kentucky,, dated Nov. 27th: All commanding officers serving in this district are ordered not to permit any negroes or slaves to enter the camps, and all officers or privates are forbid- den to interfere or intermeddle with the slaves in any way. That such a policy should be runanig on side by side with the negro recruiting system is one of those innumera- ble little facts which show us that statesman- ship does not exist at the North. The Re- publican leaders work away at the war like so many moles, never knowing where they may emerge, and never caring to secure that their efforts shall be convergent. Let us look for a moment at the irrepressiblene- gro from the military point of view, and 130 TIlE POLICY 013 A NEGRO ARMY FOR THE NORTH. 137 see how many problems he might, if steadily of the North would he reconciled to the first regarded in this light, help to solve, steps of the Emancipation policy,.and if, In the first place, the negro would prob- as we hope, the regiments thus formed should ably supply the North as good or even a bet- prove the most effective and best disciplined ter military materiel than the mean whites in the army, the military pride of the North supply to the South. They are quite as would soon convert them to the Presidents strong and quite as hardy, apparently quite policy,for no susceptibilities of caste woul as courageous, nearly as intelligent, much be hurt by the glory of black regiments with more faithful if well treated, and much more white commissioned officers,the unjust rule deeply habituated to that obedient attitude of war being that all display of public grati- of mind which is the essence of military dis- tude is lavished on the leader, however much cipline. The Northern army has always is due to the followers. been a free-and-easy army; fighting bravely, But not only would this policy enormously it is said, but also determined to exercise the lower the cost of the army, spare the labor right of public opinion as to the moment of the North, and reconcile the Democrats when they have done their share. The no- to emancipation, but it might be made one tion seizes them in battle that they have ac- of the most powerful elements in what we complished all that ought to be expected of may call the foreign policy of the war; for them, and then no officer can force them to do there would be no better means of avoiding more. This is not business in military af- all .the dangers of servile insurrection than fairs. The Southern troops, accustomed to passing the fugitive slaves through the dis- an aristocratic caste, do not judge for them- cipline of a military regime. The least in- selves in this way. They spend themselves dulgence of private license or vindictiveness at the command of their officers. And thus, might then be punished by i stant death too, it would, in all probability, be with~a without any undue austerity. In no way negro army. Their fidelity and their respect could a severer control be kept over the for the white. race would alike keep tight risks of emancipation on a large scale. And the bonds of military authority, now so loose thus the natural European suspicion of all at the North. The negroes would be Sepoys sudden emancipation would he best removed. without any disposition to treachery, and Nor would this be all. One result of such a with more than the Sepoy physique. More- measure would he still more important. A over, they would be even less exposed to the negro army once established would probably malaria and exhaustion of the Southern become the nucleus of the permanent mili~ climate than the Southerners themselves. tary system of the North,and so a most Again, the negro just released from slavery important check upon the South. Of course, would thankfully accept low wages in the we are assuming what all Englishmen now Northern army, instead of the enormous assume, that absolute subjug~ion of the bounty and pay now claimed by every white South is a dream, that the war is a question volunteer; and they would be as easy to sat- of boundaries, a question, as mathemati- isfy with wholesome rations of any kind as cians would say, of the maximum or mini- the present army is hard. Every element mum extent of the slave power. Now, as- of the soldier is to be found in the negro, suming this, what could he more important, tinless it be natural military tastes, and this more decisive for the slaverypolicy of the the cause now supplies. There is physical South, than the existence of a negro army strength and a body used to unlimited hard- across the border,capable of large increase, ships. There is deference of spirit, clanship and ready and eager to act in all causes directly as between man and man, and affectionate involving the extension or limitation of slav- fidelity to superiors. There is the willing cry? The knowled~ e of such a fact would be harA without the meddling head, and the by far the most effective check on slavery greatest of all motives for desperate valor. propagandism that could be exerted. by the But next, a large auxiliary negro army agency of human fear. would help to solve a great political prob- In whatever light we contemplate the lem. Under the Presidents Emancipation question, the principles involved in the erca- policy a great number of negroes must be at- tion of a negro army seem to us most preg- tracted northwar~ls, and the greatest jeal- nant of weighty result and gradual political ousy is felt by the Northern laborer lest they transformations. But if the Northern states- should reduce his normal wages. By em- men will never look beyond the hour, what ploying them freely in the army this danger can save them? Foresight~ and combina- would be partially averted, and a great boon tion are only less needful than strict justice conferred upon the Northern laborer, who in dealing with the emancipation of the ir- dreads the drafting policy of the administra- iepressible negro. tion. In this way the half-reluctant States 138 THE CHRISTIAN OBSERVER ON THE UNITED STATES. The Christian Observer for Dec., in the article ~ enlist. Volunteers are not to be had at am Public Affairs, thus speaks of the United States. enormous bounty; and the Oovernment dare This work is conducted by the successors of Clark- not enforce the conscription. The tax-gath- son, Wilberforce, and Zachary Macaulay, the great crer waits till the 1st of January, and every Anti-slavery leaders, and is the organ of the thing seems to threaten an impending crash. Evangelical Party, in Great Britain. Evea the dissolution of the whole fabric of A RAY of hope seems at length to gleam the Republic in the North would not surprise upon America. The obstinacy, insolence, us. Yet, such are the changes to which all and contempt of justice and humanity of the democratic governments are liable in times Federal Government have met with a sud- of danger,so violent, sudden, and often den check where it was least expected. There contrary to every reasonable conjecture, has always been a party in the North to whom that all this may mean nothing more than a their proceedings were as hateful as to our- conflict of parties. selves; but they were cowed and silenced; If, in common with the whole of England, for moral courage is unhappily a feeble vir- we view the American crisis with satisfaction. tue there. But it has gathered strength at it is from no indifference to her real welfare. last; and the disgraceful misconduct of the She has shown us within the last twelve war, together with the political misconduct months, that her own happiness, and the and incapacity of President Lincoln and his peace of the world, are likely to be promoted Cabinet, have added thousands to the list of by the disruption of her huge republic. A the discontented. The elcctions for the next State that has no respect for its own liabili- Congress, as well as the different State elec- ties, is not likely to respect the liberty of tions, which have just taken place, show a other States A nation that carries on a strangely altered state of feeling throughout civil war with a ferocity unknown except to the North. The war-party is in fact in a ~vages, is not exactly the nation whose minority, and the inhuman proceedings and threats of foreign conquest will much Ion- tyrannical violence of the Government are ger be tolerated even by the most tolerant denounced in public meetings held even in of her allies. The massacre of ten unof- New York itself. At present the Republican fending, unarmed Confederates in cold blood, or war party, with the President at its head, on the plea that a Federalist, who was miss are in the throes of what is not unlikely to ing, was supposed to have been murdered, terminate in another revolution; and it has sent a thrill of horror through Great seems far more probable that the Federal Britain. This is not merely the language of States will break up into two or three repub- newspapers and politicians; it is well that lics, or military despotisms, than it has been America should know that indignation is at any time since the commencement of the much more wide and solemn; and that our war, that t~e North and South should ever oldest and best men are amongst the first to be reunite~ General McClellan has been denounce it, as standing side by side with once more suddenly dismissed; and the com- the massacres of Dahomey in the appalling mand of the great army of the Potomac is magnitude of its guilt, and as affording a committed to General Buraside. We do not proof of the wonderful patience and long- pretend to judge of military affairs, but it suffering of Almighty God. It was in such appears to us that the general is sacrificed terms that it was denounced from the pulpit to public clamor. The North wants a vic- on Sunday last, in a missionary sermon, by tory; the Government cannot exist much Mr. H. V. Elliott, of Brighton, which those longer without one. McClellan has been who heard will not soon forget. Why are ordered to fight, and has refused so to do, American Christians silent amid such na- on the plea that he wanted supplies; but no tional crimes as this? doubt under a conviction, which it was not The Emperor Napoleon has formally pro- prudent to avow, that with an army such as posed to England and Russia, that an offer he commands it would have been madness to of mediation be made on the part of the three risk all in a battle with troops such as the great powers, the basis of which should be Confederate generals could bring into the suspension of the blockade, and of hostilities field. Whether General Buraside will re- on both sides, for six months, with a view peat those useless, murderous slaughters, to further negotiations f~r peace. Russia which, under the name of battles, have first, and then our own Cabinet, have de- shocked the world during the last American dined the proposal; though at the same campaign, remains to be seen; nor can we time Russia declares her readiness to give to tell whether the war itself will be renewed. it her moral support, if it should be carried It seems to have come nearly to an end, from out; and England, expressing great respect the mere want of materials to feed on. The for the emperors motives, and throwing in fire has burnt out for want of fuel. Even a eourteons acknowledgment of his good the most ferocious of the war party will not offices rendered to us in the affair of the THF UNITED SERVICE MAGAZINE~ S OPINION. From The United Service Magazine for Dec. WITH that modesty which is so charming a feature of their character, the Federals pro- fess to be furiously angry with England for not treating the Confederates as pirates, though they are afraid to do anything of the kind themselves. We all remember how, at the beginning of the war, they captured a few Confederate privateersmen, tried them as rebels and pirates, and solemnly sentenced them to death; but we also remember how all this bluster evaporated at the threat of retaliation ~by the Southerners. The old frenzy has been revived of late by the injuries inflicted on the Federal commerce by the Alabama, and the paroxysms of fear produced by one single vessel are positively ludicrous. In the apprehension of its Chamber of Com- merce, New York stands an excellent chance of bombardment, the California packet, freighted with the almighty dollar will become the prey of the pirate, and all traffic under the Federal flag is at an end. A nation that ranks Paul Jones among the foremost of its naval heroes, ought not to be very severe on pirates. But it suits well with the brilliant achievements of their land forces, to find the Federal cruisers cau- tiously giving the one armed vessel of the Confederates a very wide berth, and the New York mob are quite true to their char- acter in reviling England as its upholder. The fact is, the Confederates have far the most reason to complain of our neutrality, however honestly carried out, and the Feder- als have benefited by it immensely in their unrestricted purchase of all warlike mat jel. So we get no thanks on either side, and shall never be free from embarrassment until we make up our, minds to recognize the Con- federacy, and thus do more to put an end to the miseries of the war in America, and en- forced idleness in Lancashire, than if we joined in the half-measure of mediation~ proposed by France, which if not backed by force would only irritate, and give a little seizure of the Trent, thinks it expedient to fresh strength to the Lincoln Government. wait; under the conviction that interference But it is evident enough that the beginning at present would be productive of no good of the end i~ close upon us; the Young result. On the whole, it is clear that the Napoleon has been ignominiously deprived three courts are prepared to move whenever of command, and as an advance is now to they can do so with a fair prospect of sue- be made cot2te qui cogte by Burnside, it is cess, and this is all that we can reasonably tolerably safe to predict what the result will desire. The madness of Am~irica must be be. If he advances, he will be defeated, allowed to exhaust itself, and then reason and if he does not advance he will be de will be heard. posed; and the only choice seems to be, the _________ loss of a general, with or without the loss of the armed mob which goes at Washing- ton by the name of an army. McClellans friends announce that they intend to pro- pose him as the future President, and what is more likely than that they should antici- pate the legal term P He may not be a first- rate general, no one will venture to say that he is, but still he is popular with his troops, and if they choose to make him Dictator, his rule cain hardly be worse than that of the crazy Abolitionists who have displaced him, and who are smarting under their re- cent electoral defeat. At any rate, the model Republic is a thing of the past, which in itself is a matter of sincere con- gratulation for the whole world. A FRENCHMAN ON AMERICA. HEAR what M. Pelletan says of us in his new work, La Moderne Babylone. After descanting on the degeneracy of the inhabi- tants of Paris, and the tyranny under which they live, he suddenly stops, and apostroph- izing us, exclaims The Americans of the North the Yankee, the clown, the~ worshipper of the almighty dollar, behold what he does when the slaveholding South, os if to fasten upon the negro the tyranny of climate, tears the bond of Union. For a simple met- aphysical ideathe Union; for another abstract idea, legality: for a dozen of stars more or less on a stripe of bunting, the American of the North offers upon the altar of his country his last man and his last dol- lar. He gives the example, never known before, of a voluntary budget; he takes the rifle himself, ready to die for abstract justice. He learns the art of war, as the France of the Republic did under the fire of the enemy; he hesitates at first, he looses the the battle at first: but be sure he wins the day at last. Do you know any grander spectacle any fairer apotheosis of free- dom P 139 THE STORY OF THE GUARD. The Story of the Guard. A Chronicle of the War. By Jessie Benton Fremont. Boston: Ticknor & Fields. 1863. A BORDER STATE GOVERNOR ON THE PROCLAMATION. THE message of Gov. Pierpont of West Virginia has reached us. He states that he sustained the Emancipation Proclamation at Altoona, and explains why he did. He reviews the circumstances under which the proclamation was made. The rebels had undertaken to found a confedracy on slavery as the chief corner-stone. Little progress had been made against them in sixteen months of warfare. He then says The leaders of the rebellion had impressed the minds of the slaves with the idea that the Federal Government would take and sell them to the sugar planters of Cuba, to de- fray the expenses of the war. Thus the slaves themselves, to a great extent, became active partisans within the Confederate lines. They were everywhere engaged in doing the servile work of the camp, and, in many instances, in performing the duty of the soldier. All other business than carrying on the war was suspended. Their whole energies were directed to the prosecution ef the rebellion. Their slaves number more than fqur millions; and they were engaged, in addition to the duties before alluded to, in raising supplies of every kind for the maintenance of the army; while at the North, all our agricultural, commercial, manufacturing, and educational pursuits, being carried on by white men, it may be safely estimated that the four millions of slaves engaged in the production of th men at the North carrying on the ~ ~5And ~chis is the story of the Body-Guard. sinews of war, are equal to eight millions not claimed for them that they showe pursuits a rarer courage than tens of thousands of before mentioned. others in this war. But theirs was the sin- This state of facts stood out in bold relief oular fortune to go to their first battle under to all candid observers. It was apparent that a cloud of reproach, though blameless, and while slavery is the strength of the Confed- to return from it victorious, to the punish- erates and afforded them the greatest assist~ ment reserved for the gravest military of: ance, it was also their weakness and could fences. They did their whole duty, and be easily turned to their overthrow. It was more. They lit up the dark war cloud, fur- evident that all the industrial pursuits of the ther blackened by Balls Bluff, with a light- ning ray of victory, an earnest of what was loyal States must be stopped, the army in- to follow. For this they were dismissed the creased from one million to fifteen hundred service; the morning freshness of their love thousand, or the Confederates must be of country blighted, and its first offering re- stricken at their weakest point and an end jected. It is such a grievous sin to throw put to the war. The President chose the back generous feelings and make trust im- latter course, and placed before them the possible. I dreaded its effect on them. But alternative of returning to their allegiance, they are proving that deeper than any self- love lies love of country. Nearly all are or universal emancipation in all the States again in service. They have deserved higher and districts which refused compliance with reward than any ordinary victory can earn, the requirements of the proclamation. for they have conquered themselves. THIS little work was written nearly a year ago, to commemorate the services of the Body-Guard Qf Gen. Fremont, and with a view to the assistance of the familles of those who had fallen in battle. Various causes delayed the publication, but it is still as fresh and welcome as it would have been then, while it is more needful now to recall to the public mind the daring and brilliant exploits on which it is founded. No inci- dent in our war, so full of incidents, has more deeply thrilled the heart of the nation than the intrepid charge of Zagonyi and his gallant followers at Springfield; it must long continue to live in the memory of the nation, and the signal injustice with which the brave body was subsequently treated renders it doubly worthy of remembrance. Mrs. Fremont has told the simple tale with spirit and judgment, and yet with great gracefulness. She allows the actors in it to speak for themselves, when she can, which method imparts a certain authenticity and raciness to the style; but her own contribu- tions are so frank, ingenuous, and withal generous, that she needs not the seeming apology with which she closes her kind la- bors : Whateer success awaits my future life, The beautiful is gonethat comes no more. 140 CHINA AND GREAT BRITAIN. When there is such a weight of sacrifice and suffering, I trust much apology is not needed for my attempt to lessen its burden on those to whose assistance this little offer- ing is dedicated. I think only the wife of a man much before the public can fully value the sacred- ness of home, and make it almost a religion to guard against any profanation of its sweet security. Born to and educated in this feel- ing in my fathers house, and confirmed in it by the experience of my own home, it has been a real sacrifice for me to lay open even so small a part of my life. This is unneces- sary to say to those who know me, but as such a vast many more do not, and, only seeing whats done, know not whats resisted, I beg of them to bear this in mind, and not think this attempt to relieve suffering more unwo- manly or less needed than any of the other new positions in which women are fihding themselves during this strange phase. of our national life. The restraints of oidinary times do not apply now. How many women many of them rich in the good gifts of youth and beauty, and charm of the mindminister daily at bedsides of men whose very names are unknown to them, overcoming not only their shuddering repugnance to ghastly sights, butthe deeper instinct of shyness and reserve! They can well bear the sneers of those whose iDecameronish instinct leads them to sit apart in pleasant places, and cul- tivate forgetfulness while the angel of death is leaving no house unvisited. They have waked to a higher aim:~ they have felt with their native land and are one with their kind. We have no occasion to add that, as this earnest and sympathetic work is from the press of Ticknor & Fields, it is printed with a neatness and beauty worthy of the contents. N.Y. Evening Post. 141 explained their policy. Mr. Lay, accord- ing to the Times authority, says that by hon- estly paying the import duties to the impe- rial Government of China he has engaged its friendship and achieved the direction of its policy. This great end he means to use to capture the whole Taeping army, and trans- port it bodily to the is lands of the Eastern Archipelago, where there is waste land and food and water in abundance. Captain Os- born states that he is going to teach the Chinese humanity, or, in other words, Eng- lish modes of warfare. Both agree that they are, in effect, the Cabinet Councillors of the Emperor of China, and intend to use their power; and Mr. Gladstone, who was present, is said to have given his blessing, both per- sonal and ministerial, to this gigantic policy, and wished it God speed. Captain Osboras and Mr. Lays speeches, if accurately sum- marized by the writer in the Times, really mean that a knot of Englishmen intend to govern China by Chinese resources; and, indeed, in British India permission to Brit- ish subjects to enlist in the Emperor of Chi- nas service is officially advertised. This is the old East Indian policy initiated onafar grander scale, and with our eyes wide open to the results,and if true, is by far the most momentous act of the Government during this generation. Yet Parliament has not only not been consulted, but has been soothed into carelessness. A despatch of Lord Rt~s- sell, published last session, carefully inti- mated that it was the policy of England to intervene as little as might be in the strug- gle, and only to defend commercial ports. The new policy, no doubt, will not involve expense to Great Britain, for China will pay; but it involves deeply the most vital princi __________ ples of our imperial responsibility, and re sults almost certainly in a gradual annexa- tion. Is Parliament a cipher that this should happen without its sanction P Are we will- ON Monday last the most important polk- ing to let the greatest political responsibility ical declaration of our day is said to have of our generation be taken up without a been made in ~ very odd locality, the rooms movement from the nations cpnscience or a of the Geographical Society. Captain Sher- sign from the nations will PSpectator, 13 ard Osborn and Mr. Lay were there and Dec. CHINA AND GREAT BRITAIN. 142 THE IMPATIENCE OF HOPE. BY MISS H. A. BURINGTON. COME, sweet new year! We hear thy footsteps falling soft afar, And waiting Freedom holds t~ie door ajar. Come, sweet new year! Beside thy portal, bowed and sad she stands, Her blood-soiled banner in her drooping hands. Come, sweet new year! Thy crown of promise on her brow we see, Her hope, her strength, her life, are all with thee. Come, sweet new year! And let thy gladness from a thousand bells Peal ont the hope that in her bosom swells. Come, sweet new year! Grim war sits trembling in his banquet hall The dread handwriting flames along the wall! Come, sweet new year! The long-bound captive lifts his fallen head Amazed, expectant, listens for thy tread. Come, sweet new year! The mourning millions wait, with tear-wet eyes, The blest fruition of their sacrifice. Come, sweet new year! The long, long ranks swept down in truths de- fence Await in thee their glorious recompense. Come, sweet new year! With snows of peace veil all the gory sod, And bring the days acceptable to God. Transcript. THE BATTLE OF CHARLESTOWN, DEC. 2, 1859. ITo-day is the anniversary of the execution of the fanatic, old John Brown, whose soul, how- ever, is still marching on in Virginia and else- where. And we may imagine ~vhether he looks down with pleasure to-day upon the gallant col- ored regiments in Louisiana and South Caro- lina. The following lines, written two or three days after the execution in 1859, are sent us by a friend.]ED. PREss. FRESH palms for the Old Dominion! New peers for the valiant dead! Never hath showered her sunshine On a field of doughtier dread Heroes in buff, three thousand, And a single scarred gray head! Fuss and feathers and flurry-.- Clink and rattle and roar The old man looks around him On meadow and mountain hoar The place, he remarks, is pleasant, I had not seen it before. Form, in your boldest order, Let the people press no nigher! Would ye have them hear to his words Words that may spread like fire ~ THE IMPATIENCE OF HOPE. Tis a right smart chance to test him (Here we are at the gallows-tree), So knot the noosepretty tightly Bandage his eyesand well see (For ~vell keep him waiting a little) If he tremble in nerve or knee. There, in a string, weve got hint! ~(Shall the music bang and blow?) The chivalry wheels and marches, And airs its valor below, Look hard in the blindfold visage (He cant look back), and inquire (He has stood there .nearly a quarter) If he doesnt begin to tire? Not yet? how long will he keep us To see if he quail or no? I reckon its no use waiting, And Us time that we had the show. For the trouble..-we cant see why Seems with us, and not with him, As he stands neath the autumn sky, So strangely solemn and dim! But high let our standard flout it! Sic semper! the drop comes down And (woe to the rogues that doubt it!) Theres an end of old John Brown? Dec. 5th, 1859. H. Hartford Evening Press. THE ISLES OF GREECE. THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece, Where daring Byron fonght and sung, Where bandits thrive in time of peace, Where much is murdered Homers tongue; Vainly Bavnrias Court may fret, For poor King Othos sun is set. The king was sitting on the deck Of his fair fri~ate on the sea, When suddenly there came a check Which ended his felicity: Courtiers lie had at break of day But when the sun set where were they i The mountains look on Marathon The men who, on that haunted plain, So marvellous a victory won, If they returned to earth again, With thoughts of joyous prido would see Their country struggling to be free. Strange, that the dream of Homers land, Of Pericles immortal town, As hopes of liberty expand, Should be, an English prince to crown To see an Alfred hold the seas Once guarded by Themistocles. The dream is vain, and yet it shows That Greece is living Greece, even now, That the great hope of Freedom glows Within it: and that rocky brow, If despot treat the realm amiss, May see another Salamis. GIVE. NOVEMBER. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Or English port were better, since The scion of an English line Is famous Astus longed-for Prince: And let our pledge of friendship be Hail to the land whose sons are free! Press, 6 Del. GIVE. Is Lancashire liberal? Outrace her, Giving two crowns to her one. Is Lancashire stingy? Outface her, Giving much to her none. Be it little or much, lets be striving. Give money, or blankets, or prayer All but reasons for not giving, Though they be never so fair. If the North pour her wealth without stint, The want passes all her powers: If the Norths heart be hard as flint, More need of softness in ours. Thea be there no cry but one Heard through this struggle to live, The cry of the horse.leech alone A sore cry of Give! Give! Give! Rich men, give of your millions, ~ Poor men, let your mites be flung, Lords and laborers, soldiers, civilians, Men, women, old and young. Give for love of your sister and brother, Give for your neighbors shame: Give in rivalry of each other Twill be giving all the same. Loves gifts bring a blessing confest, And who knows but the baser giving, May at such a time be blest, And dead hearts touched to living! Punck. PUTTING THE CART BEFORE THE HORSE. The old saw goes that an Irishman is privi. leged to speak twice, and so correct his blun- ders. The privilege was never more amusingly exercised than in these ingeniously spun verses. PATRICUS LOQUITUII. On, for some deep, secluded dell, Where brick and mortars line may cease; To sit down in a pot of grease No, noI mean a grot of peace! Id choose a home by Erins wave, With not a sound to mar lifes lot; Id by the cannon have a shot Noby the Shannon have a cot! How fair that rocky isle around, That wide expnnse to scan it oer; I love a shiver with a roar NoI mean a river with a shore! Romantic Erins sea-girt land, How sweet with one you love the most To watch the cocks upon the roast NoI mean the rocks upon the coast I Twere sweet, at moonlights mystic hour, To wander forth where few frequent, And come upon a tipsy gent NoI mean a gypsy tent! In that retirement lone I would Pursue some rustic industry, And make myself a boiling tea No, noI mean a toiling bee! Beneath a shady sycamore, How sweet to breathe loves tender vow; Your dear one bitten by a sow NoI mean sitting by a bough! Or, sweet with your fond wife to sit Outside your door at daylights close While shes hard hitting at your nose NoI mean hard knitting at your hose? Perhaps on early cares you brood, While sympathy her sweet face shows; Tis good to walk upon ones toes NoI mean to talk upon ones woes! She smiles you into jest at last, As pleased to see the spell is broke, And draw from you a gentle moke No, noI mean a mental joke! Ah! how you watch that fairy shape, A summer dress which does adorn; Admiring much her laugh of scorn No, noI mean her scarf of lawn! NOVEMBER. THE wild November comes at last Beneath a veil of rain, The night wind blows its folds aside Her face is full of pain. The latest of her race, she takes The Autumns vacant throne; She has but one short moon to live, And she must live alone. A barren realm of withered fields, Bleak woods, and falling leaves, The palest moms that ever dawned; The dreariest of eves. It is no wonder that she comes, Poor month! with tears of pain; For what can one so hopeless do But weep, and weep again. 143 OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND. OVERTURES FROM RICHMOND. BY ~ROFESSOII CHILD. A NEW LILLIBURLERO. WELL, Uncle Sam, says Jefferson D., Lilliburlero, old Uncle Sam, Y6ul~l have to join my Confedracy, Lilliburlero, old Uncle Sam. Lero, lero, that dont appear 0, that dont appear, says old Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, fihibustero, that dont appear, says old Uncle Sam. So, Uncle Sam, just lay down your arms, Lilliburlero, etc., Then you shall hear my reasnable terms, Lilliburlero, etc. Lero, lero, Id like to hear 0, Id like to hear, says old Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, fihibustero, Id like to hear, says old Uncle Sam. First, you must own Ive beat you in fight, Lilliburlero, etc., Then, that IL always have been in the right, Lillihurlero, etc. Lero, lero, rather severe 0, rather severe, says old Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, filihustero, rather severe, says old Uncle Sam. Then, you must pay my national debts, Lillihurlero, etc., No qucstions asked about my assets, Lilliburlero, etc. Lero, lero, thats very dear 0, thats very dear, says old Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, fihibustero, thats very dear, says old Uncle Sam. Also, some few i. o. u. s and bets. Lilliburlero, etc., Mine and Bob Toombss, and Slidells, and Rhetts, Lillihurlero, etc. Lero, lero, that leaves me zero, that leaves me zero, says Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, filibustero, that leaves me zero, says Uncle Sam. And, by the way, one little thing more, Lilliburlero, etc., Youre to refund the costs of the ~var, Lilliburlero, etc. Lero, lero, just what I fear 0, just what I fear; says old Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, fihihustero, just what I fear, says old Uncle Sam. Next, you must own our Cavalier hlood! Lilliburlero, etc., And that your Puritans sprang from the mud! Lilliburlero, etc. Lero, loro, that mud is c!ear 0, that mud is t~Iear, says old Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, filibustero, that mud is clear, says old Uncle Sam. Slaverys of course, the chief corner-stone. Lillihurlero, etc., Of our Ntw clv-IL-I-ZA-TION! LilJiburlero, etc. Lero, lero, thats quite sincere 0, thats quite sincere, says old Uncle Sam. Lero, lero, filibustero, thats quite sincere, says old Uncle Sam. Youll understand, my recreant tool, Lillihurlero, etc., Youre to submit, and we are to rule, Lilliburlero, etc. Lero, lero, arent you a hero! arent you a hero! says Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, filibustero, arent you a hero! says Uncle Sam. If to these terms you fully consent, Lillihurlero, etc., Ill be Perpetual King-President, Lillihurlero, etc. Lero, lero, take your sombrero, off to your swamps! says old Uncle Sam, Lero, lero, filihustero, cut, double-quick! says old Uncle Sam. Atlantic Monthly. TO MY WIFEIN FUTURE. O UNKNOWN lady !who are ye? What is your name, and what your rank, miss~ Live you in Peckham or Peru, Put up near Cairo or the Bank, miss? Or are you one of Hampsteads own Fair, fairy-like, bewitching beauties? Or come you from another zone Of tigers, elephants, and Sooties? Are you the daughter of John Smith, Or are you heiress of a nabob? Or have you got no, kiu or kith An orphanleft without een a bob? Will no one claim you, make you rich, Or elevate you to the peerage? Money or rank, no matter which One buys the other in this here age. And can you sing lI hope you do And is your voice a fine soprano? And d6 you love your harp ?and you, Of course, can play on the piano? And do you ever write in rhyme, And have you got a favorite muse, lovet And do youdo youthink that Im The sort of man youd not refuse, love? But circumstances are the things Most people find that make folks marry; They tie or clip young Cnpids wings, Until he cannot choose but tarry. That beautiful Miss Whats-her-name I met at Florence, who knows whether Love might not have lit up a flame, If we had been much thrown together. But, unknown lady! when we meet, Whether in Mexico or Siam, Jerusalem or Regent Street, I wonder if you know who I am! I wonder if youll then perceive That we were formed to love together; That you and I shall joy or grieve Henceforth as one ?I wonder whether! PS.An answer addressed to the Punch ~ Office will oblige. 144

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The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 973 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 24, 1863 0076 973
The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 973 145-192

THE LIVING AGE. No. 973.24 Janilary, 1863. CONTENTS 1. The Sorceress. By Michelet, 2. UnrestraintProf. Wilson, 3. Scriptural Novelettes, 4. Language of Christ and the Apostles, 6. Human Vegetation 6. Coming into a Fortune, 7. General Butlers Farewell, 8. The Presidents Message, 9. Early Treason Unveiled Now, 10. Statesmanship of the Prince Consort, 11. Morals of the French Empire, 12. Afghanistan Inherited by Jews, 13. John Bright on America, 14. The Waverley Novels Spectator, Saturday Review, Spectator, Saturday Review, Macmi dans Magazine, AU the Year Round, To New Orleans, Spectator, N. Y. Evening Post, Spectator, C Saturday Review, PoETRY.Cry of a Lost Soul, 146. Moaning Sea, 146. Revolutionary Hymn, 146. Frost in the Holidays, 191. A Sonnet, 191. The Interests of France, 191. The Voice of Humanity, 192. When I get the Tin, 192. SHORT ARTICLES.Political Antiquarianism, 164. Glory of the Pines, 167. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BO STON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the Publislsers, the Lxvno~ AGI will be punctually for- warded free of postage. Complete sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand- somely bound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a voinme. ANY VOLUNS may be had separately, at two dollars, bound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. ANY NUMBEN may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any. broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. PAOR. 147 149 162 166 160 168 176 178 180 181 183 184 186 187 THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL.HYMN. THE CRY OF A LOST SOULA~ BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. Ix that black forest, where, when day is done, With a snakes stillness glides the Amazon Darkly from sunset to the rising sun, A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood, The long, despairing moan of solitude And darkness and the absence of all good, Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear, So full of hopeless aaony and fear, His heart stands still and listens like his ear. The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll, Starts, drops his ear against the gunwales thole, Crosses himself and whispersA lost Soul! No, seilor, not a bird. I know it well It is the pained soul of some infidel Or curs~d heretic that cries from hell. Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair, He wanders, shrieking on the midnight air For human pity and for Christian prayer. Saints strike him dumb! Our Holy Mother hatis No prayer for him who, sinning unto death, Burns always in the furnace of Gods wrath! Thus to the baptized pagans cru~l lie, Lending new horror to that mournful cry, The voyager listens, making no reply. Dim burns the boat-lamp: shadows deepen round, From giant trees with ~nakelike creepers wound, And the black water glides without a sound. But in the travellers heart a secret sense Of nature plastic to benign intents, And an eternal good in Providence Lifts to the starry calm of heaven his eyes; And lo! rebuking all earths ominous cries, The Cross of pardon lights the tropic skies! Father of all! he urges his strong plea, Thou lovest all: thy erring child may be Lost to himself but never lost to thee! All souls are thine; the wings of morning bear None from that Presence which is everywhere, Nor hell itself can hide, for thou art there. Through sins of sense, perversities of will, Through doubt and pain, through guilt and shame aAd ill, Thy pitying eye is on thy creature still. And thou canst make, Eternal Source and Goal! In thy long years lifes broken circle whole, And change to praise the cry of a lost soul ! Independent. * Lient. Herndons Report of the Exploration of the Amazon has a striking description of the pecul- iar and melancholy notes of a bird heard by night on the shores of the river. The Indian guides called it The cry of a lost Soul! THE MOANING SEA. WITH her white face full of agony, Under her dripping locks, How the restless, wretched Sea to-day Moans to the cruel rocks. Helplessly in her great despair She shudders on the sand; And the weeds are gone from her tangled hair, And the shells from her listless hand. Tis a sorrowful sight to see her lie, With her beating, heaving breast, Here, where the rock has cast her off, Sobbing herself to rest. Alas, alas I for the foolish sea, Why was there none to say: The wave that strikes on the heartless stone, Must break and fall away. Why could she not have known that this Would be her fate at length; That the hand, unheld, must slip at last, Though it cling with loves own strength! For now, too late, she has learnt the truth, Which none who learn forget And this is the best that she can do WiIh the future left her yet: To rise, and wear on her face a smile, Though her life be ebbing out; And she have not even the wretched hope, Born of a wretched doubt. For there is no pity for grief like hers, But only scorn and blame; And so she must come to her feet again, And hide from the world her shame. Chamberss Journal. HYMN. BY NATHANIEL NILES, 1775. [Sung at the Celebration of Forefathers Dag, iB .Middleburg, Vt., 1862.] WHY should vain mortals tremble at the sight of Death and destruction in the field of battle, Where blood and carnage clothe the ground in crimson, Sounding with death groans I Infinite Goodness teaches us submission, Rids us be quiet under all his dealings, Never repining, but forever praising God the Creator. Good is Jehovah in bestowing sunshine; Nor less his goodness in the storm and thunder. Mercies and judgments both proceed from kind. ness Infinite kindness. Life for our country and the cause of, freedom Is hut a trifle for vain man to part with; And if preserved in so great a contest, Life is redoubled. Oh, then exult that God forever reigneth! Clouds, which around him hinder our perception, Bind us the stronger to exalt his name, and Shout louder praises! 140 THE SORCERESS. From The Spectator. THE SORCERESS. M. MICHELETS book La Sorcilre, after selling for a week at a rate which puzzled the printers, has been prohibited throughout France. We can only wonder that it was allowed to appear at all, for a more violent blow was never struck at the Catholic faith, even by M. Michelet. Driven wild, appai~- ently, by the recent development of ultra- montane ideas, M. Michelet has propounded a new theory of the origin of the belief in what he calls sorcery, and Englishmen usually style witchcraft. This practice, which forms so large an element in the his- tory of the Middle Ages, was, he contends, produced by the combined oppression of the lords and priests,lords who took from the people even the possibility of virtue, and priests who sentenced them to hell for not having what it was impossible they should possess. He believes that the Sabbat was real, that the serfs, in their despair alike of earth and heaven, fell back for relief upon Devil-worsbip and outbursts of frantic licentiousness, that the confessions were not wild dreams, but facts, and that, in short, sorcery was in its origin a rebellion of de- spair against a persecuting Church, and a horrible system of society. His view de- serves an analysis. On the solitary heath, far away from the dwellings of men, the poor serfs and villeins celebrate the bideous saturnalia of the Witch Sabbat. The congregation is im- mense. Lancre speaks of an assembly of 12,000; Spina mentions one of 6,000 in a small borough. They exaggerate, in their coarse orgies, the odious rights which feudal law, give to their lords over their wives and daughters. They mock the Latin Mass, which, to them, is incomprehensible, by the Black Mass, which is recited backwards. They imitate and ridicule, in their own crude, obscene way, the traditional acco- lade of knighthood. By a figurative union with the Evil One, the sorceress, high-priest- ess of the indecent ceremony, gives a mock consecration to the vile orgies; and all de- liver themselves up to the Devil out of hatred of a system and a religion which crush them mercilessly in this world, and devote them to everlasting torture in the world to come. The Middle Age was, truly and literally, the age of despair, especially in France and Spain. There shone no ray of light in that gloomy night; there arose no hope of de- liverance for the poor oppressed. The people were famishing, perishing in crowds from leprosy and pestilence, which carried off one- third of the population. As for the morals of that much-vaunted chivalrous society, M. Michelet forcibly depicts its utter deprav- ity: First, adultery has become a real in- stitution, regular, recognized, valued, sung, celebrated in all the monuments of noble and middle-class literature, in all the poems and fabliaux; second, incest is the general condition of the serfs, a condition manifest in the Sabbat, which is their only freedom, their true life, where they show themselves as they are. The peasant women are serfs in body, the playthings of the lord and his varlets, deprived even of the right to re- main chaste and pure. Future times will not easily believe, says M. Michelet, with genuine feeling, that, in the midst of Christian nations, law has done what it never did among ancient slavery, that it wrote formally down, as a right, the keenest insult which can wound the heart of man. Medireval apologists in vain affirm that le droit du Seigneur was a mere pretence for levying black mail. Such a redeeming tax would be infamous enough; but unhappily there was but too often a prestation en na- ture enacted and the Fors du B~arn even as- sert positively that the first-born of the peasant is always to be reputed the son of the lord, as he may proceed from him. Is it then to be wondered at that the down-trodden villein sought a momentary physical and moral intoxication amidst the wik~ dances, the savage proceedings and coarse raillery of witch-meetings? Could there arise a refined feeling in the breast of beings~ whom the priests and the lords de- graded to the state of mere beasts of bur- den? Of religion they were simply taught that portion which modern Christians have long ago renounced as idle, s~enseless super- stition. During the Middle Age, Christian- ity exercised little humanizing influence over the lower classes, who did not understand its sublime tenets. The old philosophers and the old philosophy had been obliterated from the face of the earth, together with the temples and the schools. Vandalism reigned supreme. There never was a 147 THE SORCERESS. more violent revolution, says M. Michelet. Awe and the crushing of every natural as- piration were alone preached to the people; where can we find a single thought capable of captivating the masses? Ancient gods, enter your sepulchre! Gods of love, of life, of light, vanish! take the cowl of the monk. Virgins, become nuns. Wives, abandon your husbands; or if you look after the house, remain cold sisters to them. A huge blank had been produced in the world. Who filled it? The ChrIstians tell it the demon, the demon everywhere; ubique dcemon! Death, the grim fiend whose terrors had at least been softened down by the poetical legends of pagan my- thology, was not comforted by the great idea of immortality; the life hereafter and the tortures of hell had become synonymous terms to the lost of this world. It seems almost that they endeavored to flatten the soul, to make it narrow and tight, after the measure of a coffin. The sepulture of serfs between four boards of fir-tree is likely to conduce to that. It troubles us with an idea of stifling. If he whom they have put in it comes back in dreams, it is no longer as a light and bright shadow in the Elysian halo; he is a tortured slave, the wretched game of a claw-footed, hellish cat. Such an oppressive despair could not but produce, at first, a deadly dulness, and after- wards a riotous rebellion against God and man. The sorceress had unspeakable at- tractions for the serf; she was his mistress in every sense, his prophetess, his com- forter, his confidant, his physician. XVo- men were drawn to the Sabbat by the hope of the meal which was provided for them; a rare occurrence in the sad life of the poor creatures. They paid for their fare by sterile embraces, for to give birth to children was considered a dire misfortune. Such was the state of society produced by the absolute, unopposed sway of Catholi- cism; the greatest blessing of mankind, maternity, had become a bitter curse, but a stop to theiacrease of the population is al- ways a sure forerunner of national decline, and the Renaissance and the Reformation are happily at hand, ready to give birth to a new world. The belief in sorcery lasted long after Devil~worship had ceased, for it was ~oo profitable to be relinquished. A supersti tion could not but endure which the priests of the Catholic religion know so well how to foster; which turned out, as .M. Michelet has it, a true gold-mine for exorcising monks and arbitrary judges, which sent a chilling tremor through timorous souls, and put into the hands of the weak and the despised the formidable weapon of awe. Still the inborn longing for the marvellous, and the instinc- tive terror inspired by every unexplained phenomenon, are inadequate to account for the triumphs of witchcraft, which took, as it were, root in the very soil of Europe. It has long been looked upon as a remnant, a legacy of paganism; and undoubtedly, he thinks, we may trace to that source the Catholic saints, the goblins, elves, and sprites of popular legends. But sorcery itself was the solemn protestation of the serfs against feudal oppression. The unfairness of this terrible description will be recognized by all who have studied the history of that bad period. The Catho- lic priesthood ~vas doubtless corrupted, and used without remorse their most powerful weaponterror; but to say that Christianity had lost its power is to deny the primary facts of history. Whatever of good, or noble, or gentle there was in that evil age, arose from the slight remaining influence of that creed which ultimately, by commencing the Crusades, broke up a state of society which for a timeM. Michelets Middle A~e is far too vaguethreatened the very existence of European mankind. The priest- hood might be evil, but the belief in Christ could, so far as it was entertained, only in- troduce that very element of hope for want of which men, degraded to savagery, were flying for comfort to an accursed supersti- tion. It is not, however, to criticise M. Mich- elet that we have analyzed his book, but to point out a political fact. The alliance of the Church with the Empire is creating again the terrible phenomenon of the eigh- teenth century, a fanaticism directed against religion. Every form of scepticism is deep- ening in color and increasing in bitterness, and while good men weep over blasphemies like that involved in the Bishop of Poictiers sermon on the Relic of Charroux, the in- different are becoming enemies to the Church, and men like M. Michelet are prepared for the second time to shriek out Ecrasez linfame! The hatred of the soutane is growing, till there is danger of hate to the Christian robe. 148 UNRESTRAINT. From The Saturday Review. UNRESTRAINT. WE wear chains to which we are so used that most men never know thnt they wear them, but which are unmistakable fetters notwithstanding. They are chains partly put upon us, partly which we hang about ourselves, and which have an infinite deal to do with the appearance we make to others, causing in a great measure that discrepancy which almost iThiversally exists between a mans idea of himself and the worlds idea of him. We speak of the restraints of edu- cation and habit, not moral restrictions which apply to all alike, but social and class re- straintsthose laws of society which inter- fere with mere individual development. There are people who are under perpetual restraintsuch universal restraint that we cannot be quite sure they are restrained at all. It is, however, an assumption, probably false, that every one is unrestrained with his wife and hence one main bliss of the coiijugal relation. Most men are unrestrained with their intimate friends, and restrained with the world. The ideal gentleman is made up of nice gradations of these restraints and re- laxations. The clown and the uncivilized axe without either. voluntary or imposed re- straints, but are victims of the i,,nominious restraints of sheepishness. And there are people answering to none of these, who have no restraints, either natural or imposed, or from diffidence, clownish or otherwisewho are never hindered from doing what the heart or inclination suggests as agreeable to do by any habit or social influence whatever but whose actions respond to some inner impulse uniformly obeyed, and who know not the yoke of convention. This is a state not easy to realize, yet probably all of us have experienced it, and acted under it, at some period or another, when startled out of the proprieties of custom by some sudden wrench to our ordinary habits. All can re- call some time when we have known a mo- mentary enlargement from the self-control of common lifea wild, irresponsi~e enjoy- ment of liberty. But, beyond actual e~xpe- rience, any one consulting his hours of day- dream and reverie must be conscious of an inner world of unrestraint wherein he gives way to the warmth of impulse, the romance of feeling, where whim, humor, and liking have their free coursewhere he conducts things in a way he finds impossible in prac- tice, talking, moving, handling, acting in exact response and accordance with the im- pression of the moment where nothing comes between the occasion and the exact and full treatment and recognition of it. The drama always appeals for its truth, not to our manners, but to this region of fancied action and expression; and as its scenes en- gage our interest, we think it natural to do things which we never saw done in our lives, and are perfectly sure we never shall see, because we have a hidden world where men, and we among them, do such things, and in- dulge (and we know it is an indulgence, though we never try it) in our swing of emotions, and show, at least to ourselves, what we are. Those who run counter to the general law of restraint, if they are amiable, have com- monly more feeling, such as it is, than wit or judgment. They have expansiveness with- out perception, and are exuberant and un- restrained because of some conspicuous want which cuts them off from our sympathy. We do not know what to make of so much dem.. onstration they embarrass us with dis- plays and effusions which painfully remind us of the excesses of the inferior animals. We like our dog for overdoing his transports whenever he is fond or pleased; we admire and even reverence the hen in all the self- forgetting fuss of maternal solicitude; but we do not like the men and women whom we know to be natural in this way, because it sinks them in the scale of intellectual be- ings. If unrestraint shows itself in a char- acter of mere average qualities, it sinks the man lower in the social scale. That selfish- ness which in its degree belongs to all habit- ual unrestraint takes some gross form, and he is shunned, as falling below the standard,. As unrestraint is not natural to a man bred in society where others control themselves, there is always an hypothesis to account for it, implying something lower than humanity, as in these cases, or higher, or in some way distinct from it. Whenever i~nre~traint marks some not unamiable character distin- guished by popular intellectual powers, we may be certain it will assist to gain him so- cial acceptance, and even affection, and will greatly add to his prestige with common minds; for it is then taken as a sign of su- periority, and assumed to be the necessary 149 150 UNRESTRAINT. eccentricity of genius. Wit and humor are son comes up to it beyond any man we know. often accompanied by an extreme unrestraint Even his intellect is of this stamp, marked of habit and manner; and instances of it by power whose chief end was to show itself are invariably quoted as evidences of a spark- a hazy volume of memory, huge rhapso- ling, genial, overflowing nature. Careless dies of poetry, torrents of vituperation, ex- vehemence, impulses of kindness, scorn, pas- cessive praise and blame, vehement parti- sion, disregard bf consequences, contempt of sansbip, satire hitting right and left, effective conventionalities, odd waysall unreservedly but with no nicety of application. And, run- expressed and indulged are so many ap- ning through all, there was a vein of gro- peals to the tenderness of admirers, and tesque childishness. In his most cruel blows vouchers for the genuineness of the one gift. he was careless of consequences rather than The local celebrity may indulge in any malignant a Titan breaking tbe bones of amount of fairly harmless license, till indeed small men, as his biographer writes it. If he becomes unfit for any other scene. He giants had lived in our day, when everybody must live where his ways are understood and writes, they would naturally have fallen into accepted, and cannot exist out of the sym- the tone of the Nodesrecorded tbeir pro- pathizing element. digious revels, piled Pelion upon Ossa in To any one who has read the life of Pro- hyperbole, chaffed one another, puffed their fessor Wilson, he must present himself as friends, abused their enemies with the same the crowning example, the very hero of un- hilarious, profuse, and clumsy humor. But restraint. That a Professor of Moral Phi- writingthough, when driven to it, his ca- losophy of the University of Edinburgh pacity for work was truly giganticwas only should fight with a pugilist in a fair at mid- one out of many modes by which Wilson cx- day, and in so doing act simply in accord- pressed bulk and prowess. his was a life ance with his received character, and in no of outpouring; and we may observe that he way damage a very high reputation, argues had previously acted out every scene that he almost divine abandonment to impulse; and, describes well. Indeed he is weak, and some- in fact, the spur of the moment was with him times inanely sentimental, where he is not a perpetual inspiration. He recognized no hi~ own hero and inspiration. He had espe- social impossibilities, but always did what he cially,that spirit of rivalry which belonged liked; and his nature led him to like very to giants as such, and which so often be- strange things. His pre-eminence was that, trayed them to their ruin. He could not whereas most people who will not submit to live without matching himself with weaker the restraints of their position fall out of it, men, and getting the better. His rivalry he carried things with so high a handmind was exorbitant and indiscriminate. His and body worked their will on such a large, sense of life made him insatiable of expres- irresponsible scale that he held his place sion and success. Every walk was a race and indulged his humor at the same time; against somethingtime, his friend, or the though whether there might not be, after all, mail-coach. And it was always Wilson hidden far out of sight some modicum of against the world. He knew nb distinctidxis Scotch caution we will not say. of rank, no proprieties of place, in his enor- Those who admire Professor Wilson have mous emulation. He fought with tinkers, to admire this power as his leading charac- he leaped with gypsies, he contended in strong teristie. His daughter shows this by her drink with drovers, he swayed his club tri- frequent half-proud, half-apologetic use of umphant in Irish rows. Ilis sports, in like the word Titanic, which, in fact, explains manner, were excessive, and made men stare. matters on our assumption that unrestraint He killed more fish than man had done implies a divergence from ordinary human- before. oHe was enthusiastic in cock-fight- ity. Professor Wilson was one of the Titans ing, and (as we are told) hunted his neigh- friend and foe had often called him so bors bull by moonlight with the frenzy of a and who expects habitual reticence and de- wild huntsman. In his youthful love he was corum from a giant? Of the domestic life a very Polyphemus, making the rocks and of the Titans we dont know a great deal, hills resound with his plaints, held back by but the literature of our youth gives us a no ordinary human reserves, and perplexing pretty distinc~ notion of a giant, and Wil- his companions with his long bursts of UNRESTRAINT. passion and misery. When he had a mind to be merry, which was much about the same time with these clamorous eclogues, the jol- lity, of the common room in those jovial days was not a theatre wide enough for his tor- rent of jest, but he must adjourn from Mag- dalen to the coaching inns~, and talk all night to relays of hungry passengers, astonishing them with the extravagance of his wild hu- mor. He had a giants childish obtuseness about mutual rights, and could never see that his onslaughts, done in mere conscious strength and for the pleasure of wielding his club, deserved reprisals. It seemed as if he could not understand tit-for-tat, or that what he cared for had not immunity from attack in the nature of things. Thus, when he felt injured, which was on small provocation, he was loud in his complaints, and expected universal pity for the ill-usage. And in mat- ters of dress and figure, even in the arrange- ments of his toilet, we see the same exact accord of physical and mental organization. From the moment the giant stirred within him, yellow locks flowed over his shoulders, and he showed his defiance of custom in un- precedented whiskers. His garments were henceforth loose and wide, that no external restriction should check the free, triumph- ant tide of life. And when trouble came and our giant had a warm and susceptible hearthe craved for exceptional expression. Shyness and diffidence are incompatible with this temperament, which must find scope and indulgence in doing, and has no misgivings. So his hat was wider, the crape upon it deeper, than had ever been seen before; and he found consolation in weepers,. at once proclaiming an intolerable loss, and demand- ing a great citys sympathy. It is a further characteristic of this pre- dominating traitan amiable but also nec- essary one, seeing how real and unaffected this demand for careless, prompt, unlimited expression wasthat he should love his own haunts, and shun new scenes where he and his humors were not known. Professor Wilson did not care for London, and.was no 151 tuft-hunter. How, indeed, could he care for any company where he could not do as he liked? And nobody can be utterly unre- strained in the height of the London sea~ son, and in the company of lords and ladies whom he has never seen before. The veri- est Titans and giants of them all would look and feel small under these circumstances. Briareus would not know what in the world to do with his hands, and Grumbo would hide his club under the table, or hie him back to his castle discomfited. We are not disparaging the professor in all this. We are not so ungrateful to an eloquence that once stirred our inmost heart and set us all aglow. But Christopher in his Sporting Jacket was a torrent and an overflow notwithstanding, and we know that it was good advice to Father Thames ever- more to go between his banks. If Wilson had been capable of restraint and measure in his ways, in his habits, in his writing, his works would have endured, and played a part in another generation than his own. Titans are what they are, but they are not great men. In fact, unrestraint, wherever we see it, whatever guise it assumes, is weakness. In Wilsons case his biographer naturally confuses it with the impetuosity of genius, and talks of the fever of the soul; but such impetuosity comes in fits, and leaves a man sane intervals wherein to re- cruit after his excesses. Unrestraint is a habit. The breaches it makes are never re- paired. It leaves everything about a man loose, unfinished, unguarded he is more and more his own victim. And, also, it is selfishit is a perpetual assertion of inclina- tion against the prejudice, the wishes, the judgment of others. Nor is the importance of a mans aims any excuse for it. If all men were as unrestrained as careless of rule and order and the convenience of othersas some professedly good people who spend their days in what is called doing good, the whole social fabric would be presently dis- solved. SCRIPTURAL NOVELETTES. From The Spectator. SCRIPTURAL NOVELETTES. Tm~atE are many indignities to which chil- dren are subjected, but we know none at once so fruitless and laborious as the adap- tation of the sublime simplicity of the Bible histories and stories to the level of that stud- ied imbecility and inane multiplication of details, which a long tradition of relentless nursery persecutions has established as the Btandard of what is interesting to child- hood. When you have got one of those di- vine actions or thoughts which are fitted to bite into the imagination and take root in the heart of child or man, you may make it simpler in two waysby mincing the mean- ing, and confusing the picture with false and insignificant inventions. We have before us in the Bible the most wonderful cartoons how shall they best be rendered sufficiently petty to ensure their being entirely taken-in by childrens minds, and as a consequence not germinating there? This is the useful problem to which serious and didactic ladies are apt to devote themselves, as Christmas approaches, with unusual success. The rule is simple: give such small change for the thought that it becomes finite or infinitesi- maldiversify the picture with the feeble little familiarities of modern life and senti- ment, and then your pious child will have no difficulty at all, first in comprehending and then in forgetting it. You will have re- duced the divine thought and action from a power that touches its mind with awe and wonder, giving the impression of infinite depth and breadth and height, to a sort of parents assistant, a useful auxiliary in education, which can be effectually assimi- lated by an intelligent child; instead of leaving it what it naturally is, a power able and -intended to assimilate humanity to it- self. An unusually intelligent child is too often taken in by the process, but a true child will, so soon as it discovers the medi- cating process of the religious nursery, begin to resent it, and feel permanent disgust at the anxious mutilation and the rubbishing detail with which those great outlines are disfigured so long as they continue to tease the imagination, which will, most likely, be 80 long as life lasts. We have before us specimens of this kind of amiable but mis- chievous infatuation called Stories of Old; or, Bible Narratives suited to the Capacities of Young Children. * The way in which they are suited to the capacities of young children appears to be by the method we have indicated above. To suit to the ca- pacities of young children you must mince what you find, and inyent trivialities which you dont find,---destroy the infinitude, dot with nursery commonplacesan imaginary cradle and mother, for instance, are consid- ered effective,reduce the great- cartoons to staring miniatures, throw in a little high paint, a little modern chat, and, where pos- sible, perhaps an imaginary child to repre- sent the investigating infant, and give a dra- matic expression to its ideas. Such is ad- aptation to the capacities of young children, a theory of milk for babes, which seems to us derived from transferring too hastily to the mental world the analogy of the best known animal substitute for the mothers breast. On behalf of children in general we resent this practice. A generation or two ago, everything in the Bible was whittled down and apologized for, to adapt it to the spirit of a highly intelligent age, and as a natural consequence everything was made really in- credible to men of the slightest insight. The mature are less exposed now to this annoy- ance; the spirit of interpretation is more in earnest and more honest than it was. But. children are still at the mercy of teachers to whom it is a pleasure to reconstruct thought and fact freely, with ornamental additions, and who succeed about as much in adapting the Bible for childrens capacities, as you would in adopting geometry for children by a fundamental axiom, that no line shall ever be longer than an inch. There is no book more really childlike than the Bible inits narrative portions. Of course we do not mean that everything, or nearly everything in it is desirable reading for children, but that the highest, the tender- est, the most wonderful of the narrative por- tions have a far deeper fascination for chil- dren as they are, than any belaboring can give them. If an Alpine snow-summit is above the reach of a childs admiration, you cannot make him admire Alpine snow by melting the snow and cutting down the mountain to a bill, whereas you do prevent that unconscicus steeping of the immature imagihation in the atmosphere of sublimity ~E By Miss Iladley. Smith and Elder. 152 SCRIPTURAL NOVELETTES. which slowly prepares the way for the soli- tary joy of maturer years. To take a feeble example of the analogous Bible process, first from Hebrew tradition. In the Book of Ex- odus, the adoption of Moses by Pharaohs daughter is told thus: And when shc could no longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch, and put the child within; and she laid it in the by the rivers brink. And his sister stood afar off to wit what would be done to him. And the daughter of Pha- raoh came down to wash herself at the river, and her maidens walked along by the river Bide; and when she saw the ark among the flags, she sent her maid to fetch it. And when she had opened it she saw the child, and behold the babe wept. And she had compassion on it. When adapted to the capacity of young children,this singularly simple and poetical narrative conws out in a shape too long for extract, filling two pages, .but the details of the adaptation are these: first the child is called a baby, a little baby. Thea we have a hint from the nursery why the mother could no longer hide him, for he was bigger and cried louder. What can I do? she said, must I put my pretty baby in the river after all ? A thought strikes her, a thought that suggests the ex- istence of a Useful Knowledge Society in an- cient Egypt. In the Nile there grows a large rush, called papyrus. . . . A kind of paper was made from it,our word paper comes from papyrus. The mother thought, I will make a cradle-boat for my baby to lie in, when I put him in the river. Then comes the pathetic adaptation to the ductile sentiment of children. Can you not fancy how her tears would fall while she was doing it, and how she would pray to God to watch over her darling? Then the pitch is put on, and we have another appeal to infantine tenderness : I dare say the mother filled the inside with something soft, and made it as comfortable as she could. Then with many tears and prayers, when the baby is asleep, it is put into the river, and when the discovered baby cries, we are told, no wonder, for all the faces were strange to him, and it was his mothers face he wanted to see, and so forth. And this is suited to the capacities of young children. We con- fess the Bible edition seems to us much bet- ter so. The latter sculptures the scene with 153 that reserve and purity which never distract us by hysterical sobs; there is in it the dig- nity and nobleness of a tradition that guards the fountain-heads of a nations life, and is conscious of a divine purpose far greater than the childs individual preservation. It hurries on to its great aim. The adapted form sobs, and comments between its tears on the papyrus, and then sobs again, and analyzes babys feelings, and, in a word, fritters away the whole stateliness tf the scene,as both child and man would feel it, in the circumstantial inventiveness of that same kind of young lady who supposes that baby intuitively understands the tender expressiveness of a species of guttural con- vulsions accompanied by a chink of keys. Or, again, when young children are to be made to understand the greediness of the Israelites in getting tired of manna, we have an explanatory paraphrase. The Book of Numbers reports the complaint thus, Who shall give us flesh to eat? We remember the fish which we did eat in Egypt freely; the cucumbers and the melons and the leeks arid the onions and, the garlic; but now our soul is dried away; there is nothing at all besides this manna before our eyes,a very simple account of the hankering of coarse appetites after strong savory dishes; but not, we are sorry to say, suited to the ca- pacity of young children, who will under- stand better this equivalent, We want meat. We remember the fish we did eat in Egypt freely; the refreshing cucumbers, the cool- ing melons, the pleasant onions. We have nothing but dry food here. We are tired of having only this manna. Why are pleas- ant onions more suited to the capacity of young children than onions? Is it an attempt to prejudice their imaginations in favor of that unfragrant herb, and to prevent complaints of its too frequent prevalence in the nursery? Seriously, however, the only idea discernible in this adaptation of Bible stories to young children seems to be the in- sertion of new and insignificant details of epithet or incident, which simply obllterate the striking impression of the straightfor- ward keen original. But if this is ruinous to the impression made even on a childs imagination by the stately Oriental narrative of the Old Testa- ment, it is still more jarring when this petty and sentimental ingenuity is exerted to inz 154 prove the history of our Lord. We are told in the Gospels, There were then brought unto Him little children, that lie should put his hands on them and pray; and the disciples rebuked them. But Jesus said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the king- dom of heaven. And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence. This is elab- orated into a romance about mothers and in- fants and a certain little Ruth, by Miss Had- ley, the lady who adapts the Scripture stories to the capacity of young children. A young Hebrew mother observes of our Lord, He is greater than our father Abraham: how I should like his blessing on my child; and she looks fondly at her baby as it lay asleep in her bosom,it was her first-born son. And after a long account of other parental yearnings, the story winds up thus Can you not fancy how one of the big- ger children said, as she laid her head on her pillow that night, Mother, I shall never for- get the kind look of that Prophet of Naza- reth as long as I live. Is God as kind as he? They.say, my daughter, that he says he is the Son of God. One of his strange sayings is, that he has come to show us the Father. 0 mother, all he says must be true, said little Ruth. Yes, he calls himself the Truth, said the mother, thoughtfully. Now go to sleep, little Ruth, and dream of this wonder- ful stranger. Little Ruth went to sleep, and in her dreams she saw again the kind face, and heard again the gentle tones whispering in her ear, Let the little ones come unto Me, and for- bid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven. It seemed to little Ruth as if she was in heaven. We confess that, instead of adapting the man. SCRIPTURAL NOVELETTES. Christian history to the capacities of young children, this sort of embroidery appears to us to spoil it as a divine influence. There is no tendency more marked in childrens minds than that to fasten on the minuter details. A small child to whom the above story had been told would concentrate its attention on the fabulous little heroine, won- der what kind of a bed she slept in, and whether Ruth really dreamed of the stranger or not. Simplicity appeals to a childs mind directly, but if you offer it an alternative of two associations, one great and one small, one infinite and one finite, one eternal and one temporary, it will, of course, choose the latter. It can love a field or a wood more easily than a rich landscape; the ripple of a mountain brook more completely than the many voices of the mighty sea. Still it is well for children, as it is for men, that the touch of the eternal world should not thus be sheathed in the soft minutim of home. It seems to us that there is a great purpose in the rugged and naif simplicity of Scrip- ture. It takes us out of ourselves and our little flutters of emotion to the majesty of a divine act. Could we feel the greatness of Mont Blanc if the flower and the fir and the chaldt dotted and clothed it up to the highest peak? So even in the childs mind there is something which answers to the craving for the Absolute, and which would be hurt by all this foreground of petty inci- dent, even if the incident were true. Gazing back up the troubled story of the ages, that flood of everlasting light which falls uport Nazareth and Calvary should not be dimmed by these clouds of insect fancies. A childs eye needs to be accustomed early to the naked infinitude of that piercing light which rests upon the Son of God and the Son of FOLITIOAL ANrIQITAIIIANI5M.At is always which is equally common among blind conserv- a hard matter to keep the past and the present atives and reckless innovatorsamong the as- ia exactly their due relations to each otherat sertors of the wisdom of our forefi~thers, and once to avoid false analogies, and to give real among revolutionists who are ready to wipe out analogies their proper force. The danger cuts every traditional institution. The hlind cling- both ways. We may either form a false esti- ing to thin~s as they arc is eminently a faith mate of past times by looking at them from a without works. It is a reverence for our fore- purely modern point of view, or we may Ikil to fathers shown by acting in exactly the contrary understand the times in which we live through I way to that in which our forefathers acted. the influence of ideas which are appropriate only Saturdall Review. tetimes which are past. This last error is one LANGUAGE OF CHRIST AND THE APOSTLES. From The Saturday Review. Now this question as to the language THE LANGUAGE OF CHRIST AND THE spoken by our Lord ~ by no means a new APOSTLES. ~ one; and, what is still more extraordinary, WHAT was the language habitually used there seems to have been from the begin- by our Lord and his disciples in their daily ning the same uncertainty and difference of intercourse and in their public addresses is opinion on what to us appears so simple a a question on which, considering how much subject. It is, in fact, the best lesson of hu.. has been written on the most minute details mility to read the history of this and similar of the New Testament history, one might controversies touching more or less directly suppose there could hardly remain any un- on religion or theology; and if it were for certainty. One of the first questions whici~ nothing else we should consider the work every student of history naturally asks about lately published by Mr. Roberts, under the any remarkable man, and particularly about somewhat vague title of Discussions on the great poets, philosophers, founders of re- Gospelsgiving, as it does, among other ligions, and statesmen, is, what was their things, a history cf the various opinions that have been held on this pointa most valu- language or nationality P No one would able contribution to our biblical literature. hesitate for a moment about the language Strongly as we object to sensation titles, we of Moses, or Homer or Aristotle, Ci~sar or Mohammed, of Dante, XVycliffe, pr Luthe . cannot help thinking that Mr. Roberts has and in each case our appreciatlon of J hardly done justice either to his subject or character of these men would be ~e to himself, in announcing under so indefinite considerably influenced by the impressions which we had ~t~tlea work which, both in its special and previously formed of the nati~nai peculiari- in its general character, deserves the most ties, the genius of the language, and the spirit careful attention of scholars and divines. The speci of the literaturein short, of the whole in- mine al object 6f this book is to deter- tellectual atmosphere in which the great our what language was habitually used by Lord and his disciples. In discussing men of different countries were born, ion, Mr. Roberts has satisfied the this quest trained, and matured. There is no doubt one point of view from which it may seem requirements of the most exacting critical very indiffe+ent in what dialect the good scholarship. Not con tent with giving a news of God were first announced by Christ history of the controversy, he has re-ex- and his apostles. In one sense, Christianity amined all the sources of evidence. Not is above all time; but in another it came in content with Greek historians, Greek in- the very fulness of time; and it would show scriptions and coins, he has acquired a a culpable indifference were we to deprive knowledge of Hebrew and Syriac sufficient ourselves of those lessons which the history to enable him to form an independent and of the foundation and the growth of Christi impartial opinion of any documents that anity is clearly intended to teach us. That promise to throw light on the subject of his. the languages spoken at the gre~ t epochs in inquiry. If the early chapters of his work history form an important element for a true may seem to be of a special and merely pro- appreciation of the actors in the worlds great fessional interest, Mr. Roberts has, in the drama, must be clear to the most casual oh- second part, made the result of his previous server; and even those who are unwilling to researches the groundwork of further investi- admit that the words and thoughts of the gations, which place the original composition time could have influenced the childhood of the Gospels in an entirely new light, and and youth of Christ, will see how important will be welcome to every careful reader of an ingredient they formed in the character the New Testament. of those whom he had to address and to We might have supposed that there could win~ and whose nature he had to assume be- be but two languages with any claim to be fore he could be their Teacher and their considered as the vernaculars spoken by our Saviour. Lord and his disciplesnamely, the Aramaic and the Greek. But such was the sacred ~ Discussions on the Gospels. By the Rev. Alex- character ascribed to Latin by the Latin ander B. Roberts, MA., Minister of the Presbvte- Church that some Roman Catholic divines nan Church, St. Johns Wood. London: James Kisbet & Co. 1862. have thought it their duty to plsad the cause 156 of that language as the language of Christ and his followers. Jhis hypothesis was first formally advanced by the Jesuit priest Hardouin, in his Commentary on the New Testament, published in 1741. It was revived, we may hope for the last time, in an anony- mous work published in London in 1822, under the title of Ialceoromaica. This seems to have been a work devoid of common sense, but full of learning: and it elicited answers from Maltby, afterwards Bishop of ]i~urham, Bishop Burgess, Dr. Falconer, and others. The cause of Greek was pleaded by Diodati, in a treatise published at Naples in 1767, under the title De Christo grccce loquente. He maintains that, in the days of our Lord, the vernacular dialect of Palestine had been entirely supplanted by Greek, and that no other language could have been used by the Founder of our religion. About the same time, however, a German scholar of the name of Pfannkuche published an essay of equal learning in support of a view diametri- cally opposed to that of Diodati, arguing that the Creek language was scarcely used at all in ordinary intercourse by the Jews of our Saviours time, and that Aramaic was spoken by him and his disciples generally or exclusively. If the truth of an opinion could be settled by the prestige of names, the supporters of Aramaic would certainly carry the day against Diodati and his small train. From Eusebius down to Ewald and Renan, all the great names are on that side. Easebius declares again and again that the apostles understood no language but that of the Syrians, and in one passage he represents .thetn replying to their Lords command to go and teach all nations in the following words: What language shall we employ towards the Greeks, having been brought up only in the language of the Syrians i~ It is curious that on so important a point the ecclesiastical historian should have given us none of the evidence on which he based his categorical statements. But in spite of this absence of evidence, his statement was ac- cepted by nearly all subsequent writers, and is probably held at the present day by most who have given any thought to the subject. Even independent scholars men like Thiersch, Ewald, and Renan, who would certainly not be swayed by an unsupported assertion of Eusebiushold the same opin- ion. Ewald says LANGUAGE OF CHRIST AND THE APOSTLES. It is self-evident that only the generally intelligible language of the country could have served our Lords purpose. There was no occasion why, besides it, he should have used another; nor do we find the slightest trace of his having employed another namely, the Greek. Renan states We think that the Syro-Chaldaic was the most widely spread language in Juden, and that Christ would not have used any other in his popular discourses.~~ We do not wonder that Mr. Roberts should have felt awed by these positive as- sertions, but we are glad that he did not shrink from encountering such antagonists, and that he thought the whole question de- serving of a new and minute re-examination. The result at which Mr. Roberts arrives is, that Christ spoke for the most part in Greek, and only now and then in Aramaic (p. 16), and he establishes this conclusion by an amount of evidence which can hardly leave a doubtin the minds of unprejudiced readers. Nor is this conclusion a mere compromise between the two conflicting opinions of Diodati and Ewald. The view that Christ was bilinguis is a new view, and a view of no slight importance in the history of the world. Christianity, from an historical point of view, is the reunion of the Jew and Gentile, and, from a still higher point of view, it clearly marks the confluence of the two great streams of human life and thought the Semitic and the Aryan. How, wonder- ful, then, that He who came to reveal to the whole of mankind their common brother- hood and their common Father in heaven should have had his words and thoughts moulded in the two principal languages of the two principal families of human speech~ the Greek and the Hehrew! And so it was, not by accident, but by the providence of God, who bad scattered the nations that they each should walk in their own ways, whether haply they might find him, and who, in his own good time, called them all together to worship him in spirit and in truth. To discover in the history of the world the indications of a divine plan is no less comforting than to recognize the working of Gods grace evon in the smallest events of our daily life; and if we consider how a lan- LANGUAGE OP CHRIST AND THE APOSTLES. guage .xepresents the intellectual heirloom of a whole nation, to see Christ as the heir, not only of the Semitic, but even in a much higher degree of the Greek and Aryan races, is a confirmation stronger than any, of his truly historical character a coni- mentary clearer than any, on the true mean- ing of the fulness of time. How was it that the language of Homer was spoken by the children of Abraham at the time of our Lord? Without a knowledge of history such a fact would seem almost incredible; and yet no miracle can be better attested, none can at the same time more clearly pro- claim its divine purpose than thisthe in- termingling of the Greek and the Jewish races on the very threshold of the Christian world. The small canton of Attica had leavened the whole civilized world.~ Though conquered by Philip, it had conquered the East through Alexander; and after the dis- memberment of his colossal empire, the successors of Alexander, Greek in mind, if not by blood, became the rulers of Egypt, Syria, and Asia Minor. Ptolemy, the son of Lagos, brought Greek learning into Egypt, Seleucus into Syria, Eumenes into Asia Minor; and at Alexander, Antioch, and Pergamus the language of the educated classes became Greek. The effete civiliza -tion of these countries gave way before the healthy vigor of the Greek mind; and though thevernaculars were not swept away at once, all who wished to take part in the transactions of public life, or who had any pretensions to rank among the higher classes, had to acquire the Greek language, Greek manners, and Greek learning. The Greeks, even in Macedonia, were in the East what the Saxons were to the Britons, the Nor- mans to the Saxons, the English to the Hin- dus. True, at the time of our Lord, a new conqueror had begun, or wellaigh finished, his career. Rome had conquered the world, and ruled then supreme even in Juda~a. But the Roman was the pupil of the Greek, and the political supremacy of the pupil did not neutralize the intellectual supremacy of the master. Nor did the language of the Roman conqueror ever take the place of that of conquered Greece. Although Roman Judges had everywhere to be addressed in Latin, and although Greeks in pleading their causes had to avail themselves of the assistance of Roman interpreters, no one thought of studying Latin as Greek had been studied; and the Romans themselves were the foremost to display on every occa- sion their familiarity with the Grecian lan- guage and literature. After reading the mass of evidence by which Mr. Roberts proves the prevalence of Greek in Jud~a at the time of our Lord, we feel inclined to repeat the words of Isaac Vossius Verum nescio qu~ ratione factum sit ut hoc nostro sn~culo plerique fere Christum et Apostolos Hebraice locutos fuisse existiment, non autem Graece. . . . Nullis profecto vel argumentis vel testimoniis nititur ha~c opinio.P. 9. Dean Alford admits that Greek was com- monly spoken in Palestine (p. 11). Profes- sor Jowett states that Greek became a familiar language, not only in Asia and Egypt, but also in Jud~ea (p. 42). Yet the former limits the employment of Greek con- siderably. The latter says in another pas- sage As persons who have no education imag- ine that the authorized English version is the original of the Scriptures, so, too, schol- ars are apt to think and write as though the Greek of the New Testament were the orig- inal language in which Christianity was first conceived. But our Lord and his disciples were Galileans, whose familiar speech could never have been Greek. But what evidence is there to prove this? Aramaic, no doubt, was the vernacular of Palestine, and it was certainly understood by every Jew at Jerusalem. But such was the preponderance of the foreign Greek ele- ment, that on all public occasions it would have been useless to employ that vernacular. As well might an M.P. for a Welsh bor- ough think of addressing his constituents in ~Telsh No doubt some of the lower ranks would understand him, but to all the rest he would be unintelligible, whereas his English is understood by nearly all, and cer- tainly by those whose support is most essen- tial. Like Wales at the present moment, Ju& ea was at the beginning of our era dotted over with names of places of foreign origin. Proper names were ~)artly Aramaic, partly Greek, and in some towns, as, for in- stance in Ca~sarea, the majority of the in- habitants were Greek. It is impossible for us even to allud~ to each item of historical evidence which Mr. LANGUAGE OF CHRISI AND THE APOSTLES. Roberts has brought together in support of his position. But even if that evidence were much less ample than it is, we should still incline to his view, hccause there are hardly any facts to support the opposite the- ory. The few Aramaic words which are mentioned in the New Testament in their original form, as having been used by our Lord on certain occasions, are generally quoted as evidence on the other side. But they, of course, prove just the contrary. Suppose our Lord had always spoken Ara- maic, what reason was there to mention these few words? But if ordinarily he em- ployed the Greek language, then, to quote Mr. Roberts How beautifully accordant with the char- acter of Him whose heart was tenderness itself, that now, as He beat over the lifeless frame of the maiden, and breathed that life- giving whisper into her ear, it should have been in the loved and familiar accents of her mother-tongue Talitha cumi! The same applies to the other passages where the employment of Aramaic words by our Lord is expressly mentioned in the New Testament; and few readers of the Bible will fail to perceive the novel charm which is thus imparted to what seemed before but strange sounds in the sacred narrative. Mr. Roberts tells the following anecdote in illustration of his meaning On one occasion Dr. Chalmers was la- boring, with all the power of his earnest and eloquent lips, to convey to a poor woman an acquaintance with the nature of faith. He tried to represent his meaning under every form of speech which the English lan- guage afforded, but in vain. There was still no sign of answering intelligence on the part of his hearer; when at last, deserting the English language, he cried, Just tippen to Him. This word is the common Scotch expression for confide or trust; and it was no sooner uttered than the idea wished to be conveyed was apprehended. But the strongest argument of all, though hardly ever urged with sufficient stress, is this (p. 67) Here we possess, in the volume known as the New Testament, a collection of writ- ings composed for the most part by Jews of Palestine, and primarily intended to some extent for Jews of Palestine, and all of th~m written in the Greek language. Now, what is the natural inference? Is it not that Greek must have been well known both to the writers and their readers? . . . When we find the Galilean Peter taking up his pen and writing in Greek, why should we not suppose that Greek was quite familiar to the inhabitants of Galilee? And when we find the author of the Epistle to the Hebrews writing to the Jews of Palestine in Greek, how can we escape from the conclusion that they generally understood that language? How, then, could Palestinian Jews, like Peter, James, and John unlettered, igno- rant men have written in Greek, unless that was the language which men even in the humblest station naturally employed? And how could it have been supposed by these writers that they would be understood by their countrymen in and beyond Pales- tine, while they wrote in Greek, unless it had been assumed that that was a language with which all Jews were then more or less famil- iar? There is, indeed, another way of explain- ing why the New Testament should have been written in Greek, although those who were the first to read it were ignorant of that language. It is maintained by some divines that as the Gospels were intended for the benefit of the whole Christian world, they were written in a language universally intel- ligible. But though that language had been intelligible to the whole world, what could it have benefited the world if those whom Christ had chosen to be the leaven of the. worldthose unlettered and ignorant Gali- leans, and their immediate friends and fol- lowers.-had alone been excluded from its blessings? Again, if it is asked how the apostles, themselves ignorant of Greek, could have written in that language, it is maintained by some divines that they did so by the immediate interposition of Heaven, by the gift of the Holy Ghost. Mr. Rob- erts meets this argument with great force. He appeals to Dean Alford, who does not conceal the difficulty which our mind finds in conceiving a person supernaturally en- dowed with the power of speaking ordinar- ily and consciously a language which he has never learnt: The idea, he says, that the apostles were taught Greek by the immediate inter- position of Heaven, seems repugnant to the constitution and working of the human mind; and to all that is told us in, or may be inferred from, the Bible, as to the man- ner in which the Spirit of God operates upon it. He who has made us as we are, 158 LANGUAGE OF CHRIST AND THE APOSTLES. graciously and wisely accommodates His actings to that spiritual and intellectual na- ture which ~He has imparted . . And again, in another place (p. 464) Inspiration ought never to be had re- course to in order to escape the difficulties which arise from mere human opinions. If a man ties a knot so tangled that he cannot again unloose it, it is little short of impiety to call in divine aid in order to cut it. Throughout the whole of his book Mr. Roberts has handled his problems in the most excellent spirit. He never forgets what is due to the sacred character of Him whose language forms the suhject of his in- quiry, and he makes the fullest allowance for the susceptibilities of that class of read- ers who are not accustomed to see the prin- cipal characters of the New Testament treated as historical characters. But he never, on the other hand, forgets what is due to historical truth; and he has evidently arrived at the conviction that the New Testament history need not shrink from the tests applied to other historiesthat it has nothing to lose, and everything to gain from such a treat- ment. There is but one instance where he seems for a time, to forget the position which, as an historian, he ought to occupy in ex- amining the evidence supplied by different portions of the Gospel in support of his the- orv. When treating of the conversation be- tween our Lord and the woman of Samaria, he points out with perfect truth that the Sa- maritans, even more than the Jews, had adopted at that time the language and man- ners of the Greeks. In the reign of Anti- ochus Epiphanes the very temple on Mount Gerizim had been dedicated to the Jupiter of the Greeks. In a letter addressed to An- tiochus, the Samaritans are most anxious to impress on their king that they have nothing ~n common with the nation or customs of ;he Jews, and they are, in turn, congratu- ated by the Syrian monarch on their de- ;ire to live according to the customs of the fllreeks. It is perfectly true, as Mr. Rob- arts points out, that if any communication ~ook place at that time between the Jews ~nd the Samaritans, both being bilingues i.e., both speaking their peculiar Aramaic dialects, together with Greek,Greek would no doubt have been the language chosen for personal intercourse. For this reason, un- less there were distinct evidence to the con- trary, it would seem most natural to suppose that the conversation at Jacobs Well took place in Greek. But if in support of this view, Mr. Roberts quotes the 25th verse of the 4th chapter of St. John, which reads as follows: The woman saith unto him, I know that Messias cometh, which is called Christ; and if he maintains that the par- enthetical clause which is called Christ (6 ?~ey6~irvo~ Xptcn-6~j, was really uttered by the woman herselfthe evangelist, as he says, taking all pains to report the conver- sation very accurately he must have for- gotten that the exact words of that conversa- tion could have been heard by two persons only, and that, in repeating the tenor of that dialogue to his apostles, the main object of Christ was not to repeat the ipsissima ve?bct, but to convey to his disciples the same les- son, probably with greater fulness, which he had delivered to the ignorant and worldly woman of Samaria. And, waiving this, there still remains the further objection that the evangelist who wrote down this chapter, many years after the event, many years after the death and resurrection of Christ, might surely have added this merely verbal expla.. nation, on which Mr. Roberts attempts to rest his argument. One other question we should like to ask. Mr. Roberts shows very clearly that at the time of our Lord the ancient Hebrew had ceased to be understood at Jerusalem, and that the Law and the Prophets and the Hagiography could then have been read by the Jews in Greek only, there being no trace whatever that any translation of those books into the spoken Aramaic dialect, such as the so-called Targums of Onkelos and Jonathan, was then in existence. These Targums or Aramaic paraphrases, however, exist; and whether they are referred to the first or the second century of our era, they would seem to show that soon after the apostolic age the necessity of a translation of the Scriptures into Aramaic was felt in Juda~a. Are we to suppose, then, that after the destruction of Jerusalem, Greek died out very rapidly, the higher ranks being swept away, and the lower classes bringing the vernacular into more general use P Or, should we rather suppose that these Targums or Aramaic translations were made for the Jews at Bab- ylon, which at that time became the capital of tl~ conquered race, and the centre of their literary activity? Some explanation of the circumstances which led to the translation of the Scriptures into the spoken Aramaic soon after the destruction of. Jerusalem is certainly wanted; for, according to the views of Mr. Roberts, such versions would seem entirely uncalled for. We hope on some future occasion to ex- amine the second part of Mr. Robertss work, which is chiefly directed against Dr. Cure- tons supposed discovery of the original Ara- maic or Syriac text of the Gospel of ~t. Matthew. 159 160 From Macmillans Magazine. HUMAN VEGETATION.~ BY THE REV. HUGH MACMILLAN, F.R.S.E., AUTHOR OF FOOTNOTES FROM THE PAGE OF NATURE. IT cannot possibly escape the notice even of the most unobservant, that the tendency to vegetate is a power restless and perpet- ual. It has been in operation from the earli- est geologic ages, as evinced by the fossil remains found in the most ancient rocks. Like a palimpsest, the successive strata of the earth have been covered with successive races of plants, destroyed by earthquakes, volcanoes, and torrents, but leaving their imperishable relics behind, and again re- stored, in full luxuriance, by the play of the life agencies. Wherever an igneous rock was upheaved into the sky by some internal convulsion, its hare sides and summit were speedily covered with vegetation; wherever the water retired, leaving its sediment be- hind, the dry land thus formed became, in a wonderfully short space of time, clothed with verdure. From pole to pole, each stratum of soil, as soon as deposited, was adorned with a rich exuberance of plant-life. Nor is the layer of Natures floral handwriting which now appears on the surface less ex- tensive, as compared with the page, than the buried and partially obliterated layers be- neath, though the characters be less grand and imposing. The earth has lost much of its primeval fire, and has toned down the rank luxuriance of its green and umbrageous youth; but it still retains a considerable por- tion of the vigor which characterized it dur- ing the first great period of organized being the period of herbs and trees yielding seed after their kind. The whole face of the earth, and almost every object which belongs to it, is still strangely instinct with vegetable life. Coeval in its origin, it is everywhere present with its indispensable conditions. Burn down the forest, orplow the meadow, and from the new soil thus ex- posed springs up spontaneously a new crop of vegetation. Hew a stone from a quarry, and place it in a damp situation, and shortly a green tint begins to creep over it. Con- struct a fence of wooden rails round your property, and in a few months it is covered with a thin film of primitive plants. Expose ~ Des V~g~taux qul croissent sur Ihomme et sur les animauR vivants. Par M. Robin. Paris. 1862. HUMAN VEGETATION. a pot of jam, or a piece of bread, or any de- cayed vegetable or animal matter, to the air, and in a day or two it will be hoary with the gray stalks and powdery fructification of the common mould. Dam up a stream or the outlet of a lake, and convert it into a stagnant pond, and in a week or so its sides and bottom are covered with a luxuriant growth of green conferva~, which go on in- creasing until the water is choked up with vegetable matter, and becomes converted into a bog. How rapidly does Nature bring back into her own bosom the ruin which man has forsaken, harmonizing its haggard features with the softer hues and forms of the scenery around! I-low quickly does the newly built wall, which offends the eye by its garishness, become, by the living garni- ture of mosses and lichens that creep over it, a picturesque object in the landscape! Nature, faithful to her own law Be fruit- ful, and multiply, and replenish the earth crimsons even the cold and barren surface of the arctic or alpine snow with a porten- tous vegetation. As if there were not room enough for the amazing profusion of plant- life, she crowds her productions upon each other into the smallest compass, and makes the highest forms the supporters of the low- est. Every inch of ground, however un- genial its climate or unfavorable its condi- tions, is made available; every object, however unlikely at first sight, is pressed into her service, and made to bear its burden of life; and thus, the grandly wild Platonic myth of the cosmos, as one vast living thing, is not altogether without foundation. One of the most remarkable examples of this universal diffusion and plastic power of vegetation is seen in the occurrence of a pe- culiar flora on living bodies. The irresisti- ble torrent of vegetable life, overflowing the whole earth and every inorganic object upon its surface, has not left uninvaded the do- mains even of animal life. In its effort to extend itself, it has overleaped the barriers imposed by nature upon the law of propaga- tion, and sought to establish a footing in a strange region, foreign to all its conditions and aptitudes. Several kinds of plants veg~ etate on the bodies of living insects, such as the wasp, the sphinx, and the may-bug. The story of Sindbad and his old man incu- bus, has its counterpart in the vegetable kingdom; for it is by no means rare to oh- HUMAN VEGETATION. serve bees flying about in summer, loaded with a yellow club-shaped plant, almost as large as themselves, protruding from their heads, of which they cannot divest them- selves by any effort. The disease called niuscardine, so inji~irious to silk-wormsthe mouldiness with which the common house- fly is attacked about the end of autumnthe white slime which covers the sides of gold- fishes, are all vegetable growths which spring up with great rapidity, at the expense of the vital fluids of the animuls they infest, con- verting their bodies into solid masses of white vegetable filaments. In a large num- ber of animals, including caterl)illars, beetles, grasshoppers, reptiles, eider-ducks, and ani- m als still higher in the scale, a luxuriant growth of entophytes has often been found. In fact, animals of feeble organic activity, using solid food which is very slowly di- gested and contains little nutriment, are rarely, if ever, free from these parasites. Nor is man himself exempt from their at- tacks, although his vigorous organization, his habits of personal cleanliness, and the cooking process to which he subjects his food, are, in the main, inimical to the de- velopment of parasitic vegetation. Pos- sessed of a material structure, he is necessa- rily subjected to the same organic forces which ol)erate throughout the wide field of nature; and the law which regulates the i~n- crease and spread of vegetable life shows no greater deference to him, than to the hum- blest caterpillar, or the stone from the quarry. It regards his animal body, not- withstanding its wonderful and complex formation, simply as a convenient surface on which to carry out its destined ends. Just as the tree is made the basis of support to the lichens which clothe its trunk with their shaggy rosettes, to the mosses which weave their emerald bracelets round its boughs, and to the fungi which seek out and luxuriate on its decayed parts, so is the human body made the matrix of several vegetable parasites, some of which are symptomatic of general debility or local disease, and others are found on the healthiest subjects. Almost every part of the body is infested with some form or other of this stran~e growth. Literally, from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot, internally and externally, man is made the victim of this vegetable vampyrism. One of the most fearful pictures which the ThIRD SERIES. LIVING AOP~. 974. 161 vivid imagination of Dante created out of the gloom of the infernal regions, is that of the living forest into which certain wicked men were transfoimed, every bough and leaf of which was endowed with human vi- tality, emitted a wailing cry of pain, and exuded drops of blood when broken or in- jured. This extraordinary idea may have been absolutely originalan inspiration of the poets own fancy; but it is not improb- able, as most of the images under which he represents his abstract thoughts were taken from the characters and events of his time, that it was suggested to him by some ancient botanical treatise. At all events, this sin- gular metamorphosis is only a poetical ex~ aggeration of an appearance often produced on certain parts of the human body by veg- etable parasites. The recent excellent work of NI. Robin, which contains in a compact and systematic form all that has been hith- erto discovered upon the subject, describes about a dozen kiads of parasitic plants to which man is liable; but, as the authors range of observation has been principally confined to the inhabitants of Europe, there is every reason to believe that he has not exhausted the subject. The manners and occupations, as well as the food, of the in- habitants of tropical regions, are peculiarly favorable to the production of these abnor- mal growths, while the heat and moisture of the climate stimulate them into excessive development. Hence, when more particular attention is paid by travellers to this obscure department of research, new and strange diseases caused by plants will, in all likeli- hood, he found comparatively common in these countries. All the forms of human vegetation hitherto discovered are supposed by some of our ablest naturalists to have a common origin, and are consequently re- ferred by them to one species, which is pos- sessed of singularly protean qualities, and is able to accommodate itself to almost any situation, however difi~rent from that which it usually affects in its normal form. Such individuals not only maintain the identity of all human diseases caused by plants, but also assert that there is no vegetable growth infesting any animal body, however high or low in the scale of organization, which is not referable to one primitive form. Whether this be not carrying the Darwinian theory, in this particular application of it, a little too HUMAN VEGETATION. far, we are not yet in a position positively to say; but certainly, the more intimate and extended our acquaintance with the plant in question, the more remarkable do we find its range of variation, while by a series of experiments made to trace its growth through successive stages of development on different substances and in altered cir- cumstances, we have acquired several links in the chain of evidence towards establish- ing the truth of the opinion. The common mould, so familiar to every one as covering, with its grayish or greenish fiocculent crust, damp walls, old shoes, and almost any sub- stance, in dark, ill-ventilated places, and which is the plague of the economical house- wife, invading her pantry and defiling her cherished preserves, is supposed to be the many-headed hydra, the cause of all the mis- chief. As the appearances which it presents on different parts of the human body, how- ever, are so very distinct and remarkable, it may be interesting to give a brief detailed description of them under the separate names given to them by those who affirm that they are not local modifications of one and the some plant, but different and peculiar spe- cies. Beginning with the human head, it mi~ht seem the height of presumption for v geta- ble aspiration to strive to establish its do- minion on the dome of thought, the palace of the soul. But this object it has attained, and the crown of man is actually brought into subjection to the vegetable kingdom. Whatever the character or quantity of the brains, beneath may bewhether intellectual orBecotianthe crania of the philosopher and the fool indiscriminately afford a resting- place and pahulum for the lowest forms of vegetable life. Utterly re0ardless of Gall and Spurzheim, they luxuriate on the bumps which indicate the intellectual faculties, as well as on those which point out the animal propensities. They have no greater respect for the iron-gray head of the sage, filled with the accumulated wisdom and experience of half a century, than for the bald pow, with its indefinite silky floss, of the little child. So very variable are the appearances which this vegetation produces on the head that it has received no less than twenty different names. It is most commonly known, how- ever, under the scientific synonyms of por- rigo, herpes, alopecia, tinca, and popularly as scald-head and ringworm. Some forms of it attack children almost exclusively, and are found only among the poor, where there is not sufficient attention paid to cleanliness, while others occur at all ages and in all ranks and conditions of society. The effects which it produces are no less variable than its forms, ranging from the small brown scurfy spots, which at a certain period cover the head of every child, and which a few vigorous applications of soft soap and water will remove, to those extreme cases where it disorganizes the whole structure of the scalp, and seriously affects the general haalth. Its varying appearances and effects are in all likelihood caused by the different stages of development of the plant, its greater or less abundance on the parts affected, and the more or less favorable circumstances in which it is placed. The form which it most fre- quently exhibits is that of rounded patches of thick yellowish scales marked by numer- ous depressions, at first very small, but grad- ually increasing and invading larger sur- faces. The hairs on the parts affected are dull, dry, and colorless, exceedingly brittle, and easily extracted, broken off close to the skin, and covered with grayish-white dust. It is descrihed with sufficient accuracy by Moses in the 13th chapter of Leviticus: If a man or woman have a plague upon the head or the beard; then the priest shall see the plague: and behold, if it be in sight deeper than the skin, and there be in it a yellow thin hair; then the priest shall pro- nounce him unclean : it is a dry scall, even I a leprosy upon the head or beard. Exam- ined under the microscope, the hairs are found to be considerably swollen, with nodos- ities here and there produced by masses of sporules or seeds embedded between the longitudinal Ilhres. The bulbs nre flattened or destroyed altogether; the ends have a very ragged appearance, resembling in mm- iature the ends of a piece of wood which has heen broken across; while the medullary portion, or the pith of the hair, is quite dis- organized, owing to the pressure of the plant, which appears enveloping it, either as isolated spores or as chains of cells. The disease may last an indefinite length of time, but it usually terminates in the obliteration of the hair-follicles, and permanent baldness of the affected parts. It is for more severe in foreign countries than in this ; instances 162 HUMAN VEGETATION. 163 being numerous where it has completely re- the bare molluscous condition from which it moved the hair from the whole head, eye- originally sprung; others take an exactly brows, and heard, leaving them perfectly opposite view, and consider it a sign of the smooth and naked, impairing the constitu- progress of the race, a proof of the great in- tion when so extensively developed, and, tellectual activity of the age. By a few in.~ when children are the subjects, arresting corrigible jokers it is regarded as a kind their growth. A very formidable type oc- accommodation of nature to the manipulati. curs frequently in Poland, under the name ing convenience of that useful and important of Mica polonica, characterized by acute class, the phrenologists; while the respecta. inflammation of the scalp. The hair is bly uncomfortable head-gear, which peopl& swollen, matted together into a compact will persist in wearing, in despite equally of mass, sprinkled over as with flour with the the law of aesthetics and the law of storms, germs of the fungus, and endowed with spch comes in for a share of the reproach. Per- exquisite sensibility that it can scarcely bear I haps after all, the savants may be right, un- to be touched; while, strange to say, the welcome as the ~oaclusioa may be; and the disease seems to be aggravated by cutting youthful heir of all the ages may owe his the hair. The same parasitic plant, the venerable appearance, not, as he fondly im. Acorion Sch& nleinii, which causes all these agines, to the disintegrating effects of brain.. abnormal appearances on the human head, work, or the pressure and friction of centu- also infests the skin of the mouse; and pro- ries of accumulated wisdom under which, duces in both cases a peculiar odor by which Atlas-like, he groansbut, oh, bathos! to its presence is easily recognized. the ravages of a minute and contemptible It is a subject of frequent remark that vegetable! alopecia or baldness is much more common Passing downwards from the head, w~ now than it used to be, not only among old find another variety of tricophyton or hair- men, but even among youths and persons plant which luxuriates on the heard. It is of middle age. The advertising and pur- as ociated with a disease called chia-welk, chasing of all kinds of hair manures and or menta~ra (Sycosis contagiosa). Its ap- stimulants seems to be a feature of the pearance is indicated by redness, tension, timesa universally recognized necessity of and irritation of the skin of the chin, lower social and domestic economy. Our hardy jaw, and upper lip, followed by an eruption and unruly ancestors, being often exposed to of tubercles of various sizes, resembling the risk of hard blows, acquired, by a pro- strawberries, each of which is traversed by cess of natural selection as it were, a remark- a single hair, which has lost its color, be- ably strong and hirsute head-covering, from come brittle, and can be pulled out with the which cudgel and mace rebounded as from a utmost ease. Segments of circles of these feather pillow, and which stood in no more pustules interspersed with the parasitic need of Macassar oil or Benthams capillary growth often extend round the front of the fluid, than a hed0eho~ prickles. But now, neck, beneath the beard, from ear to ear, at when the fighting is all done in print, which the expense of permanent loss of the hair of breaks no hones-when martial valor ex- those parts. As might have been expected plodes more frequently in vehement speech- from the nature of the plant concerned, it is making than in crunching the head of an more frequent in the seasons of spring and adversary, and even Donnybrook Fair is a autumn. It is often very obstinate in its tradition of the pastnature seems to have cure, being aggravated by injudicious appli.. recalled her gift, there being no necessity for cations, and lasting for years when suitable its use; and there is a general landslip of treatment is not adopted. From the rigor- hair from the superior to the inferior parts, ous measures enforced for its extirpation by from the head to the cheek, lip, and chin. A the Levitical law, we find that it was very great many ingenious and occult reasons common amongst the Jews, by whom it must have been assigned in explanation of this have been regarded as a grievous scourge, curious phenomenon. Some advocates of polluting their highly cherished beards, if the development theory attribute it to the not consigning them to the tomb of all the degeneracy of the times, as if the human Capulets. There must have been an occult form were taking a retrograde step towards j significance in the Eastern salutation, May 164 your shadow never be less, and the hairs of your head never decrease! Pliny describes it as an epidemic raging among the inhab- itants of Rome during the reign of Tiberius Claudius Ca~sar. A Roman knight is said to have imported it from Asia, where it was very common, and to have transmitted it to his fellow-citizens. It was treated in a most barbarous manner with powerful caustics, and the diseased parts were even burnt down to the bone in order to eradicate it, the de- formities thus occasioned being far more ~iideous than those produced by the disease itself. On the Continent it is more frequent than it is in this country, owing to the con- tagion communicated and spread by the vile mode of salutation in use among friends and acquaintances, and the universal practice of shaving in the barbers shop. There is a singular form of cutaneous dis- ease which seems to have a special predilec- tion for those parts of the body which are habitually covered with clothing; being most frequently found on the skin of the neck and breast. This is the pityriasis or dandruff, caused by the presence of a vegetable growth, discovered by Eichstiidt in 1846, and called Microsporonfurfur. It consists of an efflo- yescence of small circular spots which grad- ually coalesce and produce irregular patches extending nearly over the skin of the whole trunk, and accompanied by abundant des- quamdtion oi dry branny scales, constantly renewed. The depth of tint in these scales varies considerably, being sometimes so light as scarcely to differ from that of the healthy skin, and sometimes, as in one variety oc- curring on people of very dark complexion, almost black. The color usually resembles that of diluted bile; hence the name of ~ph~lide h~patique formerly applied to it, from its supposed connection with some dis- order of the liver. On subjecting a portion of the branny desquamated matter to the microscope, numerous epithelial scales may be observed mingled with the oval seeds and filaments of the parasite; some of these fil- aments being isolated, and others united to one another at the ends, forming branched chains or ramified tubes with knots at inter- vals, like miniature bamboo canes, covered at the extremities with fructification. This affection is very common, occurring at all ages and in both sexes, though women gen- arally are more subject to it than men. HUMAN VEGETATION. A large number of skin diseases peculiar to foreign countries, which were formerly supposed to be caused entirely by hereditary predisposition, constitutional debility, or im- purity of the blood, have been recently as- certained to be associated more or less dis-. tinctly and directly with parasitic plants. The yaws, so prevalent in the West Indies, and in some parts of Africa and tropical America; the elephantiasis, which so hor- ribly disfigures the Egyptians; the ichthyo- sis or fish-skin of the East; the pellagra of the plains of Lombardy and Northern Italy are all either primarily produced or inva- riably accompanied by some form or other of the vegetation under review. A very re- markable form of fungoid disease has very lately been described in the Bombay Medicai and Physicat Transactions, and has also formed the subject of a pamphlet with illus- trations published in this country by the same author. Though new to us, it has been well known for the l~ st twenty years in In- dia, in many parts of which it prevails en- deinically. It is very common among the ryots or farmers, and is caused by the devel- opment of the seeds of a species of mould, introduced through abrasion beneath the skin of the foot. Its effects are exceedingly curi- ous, and utterly disproportionate, we should imagine, to the cause; disorganizing in many cases the structure of the whole member, and occasioning much suffering. In hospitals more especially those of France and other parts of the Continentcases not unfrequently occur in which collections of white fiocculent filaments, forming a cottony tissue, are found on removing bandages from sore surfaces. In summer these develop with the most as- tonishing rapidity, a few hours being suffi- cient for their appearance, and are exceed- ingly annoying, not only on account of the trouble involved in removing them, but chiefly because they either aggravate the sore or retard its healing. These vegetable fila- ments are called mycoderms, and are similar to the spawn of the mushroom, both being analogous to the creeping, interlacing roots of flowering plants. But not only does this peculiar vegetation infest the external surfaces of the human body; it is also found, in forms as strange and varied, in several parts of mans internal economy. Of course, as might have been expected, fragments of fungi, confervce, and b HUMAN VEGETATION. lichens, often adhere as foreign matter to his food, and thus find their way to his stomach and other organs; but these cannot be re- garded as parasites, inasmuch as they do not attach themselves to any surface, do not propagate themselves, and are perfectly harmless and easily expelled. But besides these, true entophytes are found growing on the internal structures, and propagating themselves with almost the same rapidity as in the open air. A curious specimen of this class is sometimes seen in the sordes of the teeth of persons ignorant of Rowlands odonto and all other dentrifices, and more frequently in those who are affected with low typhoid fever. This organism has little or no structure, consisting of simple tubes or filaments, like those of the common con- ferva~. It is somewhat interesting as being the first vegetable parasite found on man discovered in 1677 by good old Leuenhoek, the Dutch botanist, who very ingeniously remedied the defects of the microscope of his day by furnishing every object intended for examination with his own proper lens, at- tached by a wire at the right fncal distance. The lining membrane of the mouth and throat is the seat of an eruption of small su- perficial vesicles single or confluent, forming a thick, whitish crust, which adheres tena- ciously for a time, but ultimately falls off. This affection, called aphtha or thrush, is caused by the growth and development of a parasitic plant. It is very frequent during the period of early infancy, and also in ad- vanced stages of pulmonary consumption, and in diseases attended with slow and grad- ual exhaustion of the vital powers. In the sputa of patients laboring under phthisic, the organism may often be seen by the mi- croscope, springing in full luxuriance from the epithelial or mucous cells. Free or unattached entophytes are com- paratively rare, because they possess no means of counteracting the expulsive efforts of the organs in which they occur. The only plant of that class which is found in man is that described by Professor Goodsir under the name of Sarcina, from the resemblance of its little square cells, divided into four equal J)arts by two cross lines, to a collec- tion of miniature woolpacks. It occurs in the frothy ejections occasionally met with in severe cases of stomach disease. This local- unfavorable for the development and nutri- tion of a vegetable organism; but its very. minute size, -and its extraordinary powers of rapid reproduction, enable it to escape. removal by the ordinary expulsiv~ efforts of the stomach, the secreting power of which is greatly impaired before the plant appears. From the quaternate arrangement of its parts, it was suppose(l to belong to that mi- nute hut exceedingly prolific division of the algm, called Desmidi~, whose singular math- ematical shapes afford an endless source of wonder and delight to tha microscopical ob- server. More extended and careful investi- gations have, however, proved it to be merely an algal condition of the common mould produced and retained in that state by the. special food which it meets with in the stom~. ach, and which it finds in no other locality, hut reverting to its original form when the supply of this peculiar pabulum is ex- hausted. And, as if to establish this con- clusion beyond the possibility of doubt, it has since been found in precisely the same form as in the stomach in a case of parasitie skin disease. The class of plants concerned in these dis- agreeable affections of the human body has always furnished the strongest support of the doctrine of equivocal or spontaneous gener- ation; a doctrine which has found able and distinguished advocates from the time when barnacles were supposed to originate from the foam of the ocean, and ducks and geese to grow from barnacles. The various change. which they undergo, resembling the alterna- tion of generations, so evident in the lowest classes of the animal kingdom, as noticed by Steenstrup and others; the absence in many of these transition states of any apparent mode ofreproduction; the peculiar situations in which they are found, always constant un- der similar circumstances; the suddenness with which they appear, and the rapidity with which they spread themselveshave all been adduced as arguments in support of the opin- ion that they are the vital elements into which bodies are resolved by decomposition, or the rudiments of vegetable existence produced by a self-creative power in nature. This be- lief, however, has been so weakened by an accumulation of incontrovertible facts, that~ it bids fair soon to be little more than ar~ echo of the past. Amid all the mystery con- ity might apucar at first sight exceedingly j nected with the modes in which these plant# 165 166 HUMAN VEGETATION. are diffused, this one fact stands out clear which it belongs, even in poisonous solu.. and prominent,proved beyond dispute by tions, they will not in such situations de- the great majority of modern bbservations, velop into perfect plants, but remain, for that they are produced originally from almost any length of time, in various stages germs or seeds derived from parents, and of embryonic or filamentous growth. To having a cyclical development. Difficult as enable them to maintain this perpetual youth, it is to determine the course of their devel- and, at the same time, to spread themselves, opment, owing to the various stages of their they are furnished, in the absence of proper existence being often passed under totally reproductive organs, with an almost indefi- different circumstances~resulting in modi- nite power of merismatic division; that is, fications so great, that two successive condi- separating into lamin~, or layersinto joints; tions cannot always be satisfactorily recog- or budseach growing into a distinct mdi- nized as the samestill, when they have been vidual, and capable, in the same manner, of traced to their highest condition of growth, propagating the plant. they have always been found to possess well- A very extraordinary variety of tbis mode characterized organs of reproduction. The of propagation has been recently discovered vegetable germs or filaments which occur in by my friend, iDr. Lowe, who has experi- human parasitic affections, however diverse mented and written very ably upon this sub- their forms, have almost invariably been ject. He found in mothery catsup a number found, when placed in circumstances favor- of yellowish globular bodies about the size able to their full growth, to produce the cot- of a pins head, each containing an innumer- tony spawn or mycelium, and the dusty stalks able quantity of non-nucleated cellules, ca- of the common blue or green mould of our pable of assuming an oval form and acquir- cupboards. On the living animal body, the ing a distinctly tubular or mycelial aspect, circumstances being unfavorable7 the germ- and ultimately growing into perfect mould. cells continue in the primordial stages, re- These celiules are often found on dry sub- maining either globular, or changing into the stances; and from their exceedingly minute oval or even the filamentous form, but sel- size (being much smaller than the ordinary dom or never reaching a higher condition. seeds of fungi, smaller even than the blood- And, at this stage, the appearances which cells, incapable of detection except in they present vary very much with the sub- masses), find easy access into the most out- stances on which they are produced. For of-the-way placesthrough the slightest le- instance, in saccharine fluids undergoing the sions of the capillaries or veins of the mu- alcoholic fermentationwater being an un- cous surface into the circulating system, favorable element to fungi as a classthese where the presence of plants would be other- germs produce common yeast, which is noth- wise unaccountable. The white powder ing more than a mass of mould-cells or vesi- found on old beer barrels, and on wooden des which nourish themselves at the expense utensils where organic matter has been de- of the organic principles contained in the posited, consists entirely of these curious fluid, thereby liberating the alcohol; the entities, which were formerly supposed, with- identity of yeast with human vegetation be- out foundation, to be animalcules of the ing proved by the fact that its granules may vibrio class. Gifted as they are with such be made to induce the ordinary parasitic anomalous powers of reproduction, and capa- skin diseasesa few germs rubbed into the ble of multiplying themselves indefinitely in head or breast producing respectively tinea almost any form they assume, let us take or dandriff. In an acetous solution, the same also into account the enormous number of germs develop, into the vegetative system or seeds, produced by the normal mode of re- spawn, which, by way of compensation for its production whenever it is developed, con- want of fructifying power, spreads to such an stantly diffused into the atmospherefloat- extraordinary extent as to form the thick ge- ing about on every bi~eeze that blows; latinous or leathery crust of the well-known dancing invisibly up and down in the air~ vinegar plant. We see from these examples currents of our rooms; capable of entering that, though the seeds of the mould-fungus through the finest conceivable apertures; will not refuse to germinate in situations ever at hand, waiting only the combination ~ontrary to the usual habits of the tribe to of a few simple conditions to start into HUMAN VEGETATION. active growthand it is. surely very unrea- sonable even to suppose the necessity of spontaneous generation for organisms so miraculously endowed for universal diffusion. There is no difficulty in accounting for their origin; the real difficulty is to conceive how any place can be free from their presence. After these statements, it need hardly be asserted that parasitic affections of vegeta- ble origin are highly contagious; their seeds or buds coming into contact with the skin by transmission through the air, or by the use of brushes, combs, razors, or articles of dress, of persons affected with them. The relation of fungi to the diseases in which they occur is a disputed question. It is not known positively whether they are the cause or the effect; whether their presence is a were accidental occurrencea secondary formation produced by some incipient alter- ation in the tissuesor whether they are ac- tive morbific agents producing disease on healthy surfaces. It is true that fungi, as a class, require a dead or decomposed matrix on which to vegetate; but any argument we may build upon this circumstance is opposed by the exceptional fact, that parasitic diseases can be induced by inoculation, by the simple introduction of the vegetable beneath the skin; and, although it may appear probable, theoretically, that the spores of the fungus germinate more readily in persons previous- ly diseased, or in a debilitated state of body, resulting from want of proper food, pure air, and exercise, it is not confii~med clinically, for the majority of those affected are in vig orous health. That malarial and epidemic fevers may be of cryptogamous origin, and connected with the diffusion of these plants in the atmosphere, has more than once been asserted; and, though the opinion has been decried by several writers, a slowly accumu- lating mass of evidence seems to preponder- ate in its favor. The immense profusion of these plants ; their power of penetrating almost everywhere, and developing them- selves in almost any circumstance; their; well-known deleterious effects in parasitic diseases; the fact that their agency is purely zymotic, and that bodies very closely resem- bling them, if not identical with them, have been found in the blood and kidneys of pa- tients affected with typhus; all these render it very probable that the relation between these plants and epidemic diseases is, to say the least, closer than is commonly supposed. The pestilence still walks in darkness; but the little that is doing from time to time to lift the veil from the mystery is calculated to impress us more and more with a wholesome dread of this vast army of minute plants which, as important auxiliaries in the opera- tions of Providence, are conferring incalcu- lable benefits, by making our world purer and more healthful than it would otherwise be; but which, when carried beyond the line of safety and usefulness by the very impetus acquired in obeying the anti-Mal- thusian law of vegetation, are attended with the most disasterous consequences to all or- ganic nature, not excepting man himself. THE GLORY or THE PINEs.Magnificent! of Hadesnot knowing each other, dumb for- nay sometimes almost terrible! Other trees ever. tufting crag or bills, yield to the form and sway You cannot reach them, cannot cry to them of the ground, clothe it with soft compliance, are those trees never heed human voice; they are partly its comforters. But the pine rises in far above all sounds but the winds. No foot serene resistance, self-contained; nor can I ever, ever stirred fallen leaves of theirs. All comfort- without awe, stand under a great Alpine cliff, less they stand between the two eternities of the far from all houses or works of men, looking up vacancy and the rocks; yet with such an iron to its companions of pines, as they stand upon will that the rock itself looks bent and shattered the inaccessible jets, and perilous ledge of the beside themfragile, weak, inconsistent, corn- enormous wall; its quiet multitudes, each like pared to their dark energy of delicate life and the shadow of the one beside itupright, fixed, monotony of enchanted pride, unnumbered: Un- spectral as troops of ghosts standing on the wall conquerable.Ruslcin. 167 168 From All The Year Round. COMING INTO A FORTUNE. M~ DEAR BROTHER JOHN,This letter is to apprise you of our Uncle Benjamin Bur- fields death, an event which you will perhaps think does not much concern us, since he showed himself neither kind nor kinsman- like to his sisters children at a time when a very trifling sacrifice of his abundant wealth would have enabled you to remain in Eng- land, and have helped me to a very different lot. But, dear John, he has left me all his tnoney; I have come into a fortunehalf a lifetime too late, it is true, but still I have come into a great fortune! If he had given me twenty years ago but one-hundredth part of what he has bequeathed me now, I could have blessed him. Richard Heywood and I need never have parted, and none of the manifold sorrows and regrets that followed on our separation would have come to pass. I have often thought since that if we had had more faith and courage we might hate done ~vell; we were both young, and I at least was hopeful. I have never mentioned him in my letters to you, because he did not prosper in the world; and bad news comes always soon enough. You used to say he had not sufficient perseverance and tenacity of purpose to succeed; and it was tantaliz- ing and grievous to see how sanguinely he would start each new scheme, then in a lit- tle while fail weary of it, and give it up, if it did not first give up him. But he is dead now, poor Richard, and done with his troub- les, so it is of no use talking of what might have been: let mc rather still endeavor to make the best of what is. The intelligence of Mr. Burfields death was sent to me by his man of business, Mr. Worsley, the day after it took place. His letter found me at tea with Mrs. Jacques calm, passive, expecting nothing beyond the rare pleasure of a new good book ever to happen to me any more in this world! Im- agine, jf you can, the shock of it. 0 John, but my great fortune will deprive me of many keen enjoyments! There will be no more triumph in achieving possession of a long-coveted volume, when now I have only to ask and to have every luxury under the sun that money will buy For some months past I have been balancing in my own mind between Elms Essays and the Suspiria de ?rofundis, and now that I may have both COMING INTO A FORTUNE. for a word, I have ceased to care about either. I suppose I shall never know again the simple delight I felt last year in purchas- ing several volumes of St. Beuves critical essays, or the pride I experienced in seeing two gay volumes of Kingsleys Miscellanies displayed on my table. If you can get these books, read My Winter Garden, John; it will make you dream yourself at home again for half an hour. I have been poor and hard-working, but I have had my share of happiness too; I shall still hold fast my theory of compensations, and be- lieve that if we did not inherit from our dear father much worldly wealth, we inherited what was better, in good health, good spir- its, and a taste for good reading. If the last forsake me permanently, as it has done since I heard of Mr. Burfields death and its consequences to myself, then must the day of my coming into a fortune be marked with charcoal and not chalk! You love a long gossip, I know, for you have often said so; therefore I shall let my pen run, and tell you all as it happened to me when, by Mr. Worsleys advice, I set off to town by the first train in the morning after the receipt of his letter. lie gave me the address of a certain hotel, and thither I caused myself to he driven as soon as we got in. It was about four oclock of the after- noon, very dull and cold, and with a light rain falling. The people at the hotel ap- praised my value by my luggage and my dress, and when I inquired for a bed and sit- ting room, ushered me into the closest and least commodious the establishment had to be ashamed ot~ Sordid little rooms, dark, doleful, looking from a great height upon a narrow back street where grass might and probably did grow between the stones. It was not very distant from Russell Square, nor from the residence and office of Mr. Worsley, and so far it was convenient; but my riches had, at the outset, introduced me to a meaner and more comfortless habitation than anything my poverty had made me ac~ quainted with. However, I was glad of its silence, glad of its retirement, and having inquired if there were a messenger on the premises by whom I could send a note which I wished delivered immediately, I wrote three knes to the lawyers address, notifying my arrival, and then, country fashion, or- dered up tea. COMING INTO A FORTUNE. While I was still loitering over my favor- ite refreshment, a waiter came to th9 door, announcing that Mr. Worslev was come, and the next moment he was ushered into the room. You would have laughed to see us, John, for I am sure the introduction was a mutual surprise. V had expected to see a sharp, brisk, wiry, stiff-haired gentleman, middle-aged or elderly, and the lawyer was young, handsome, cheerful, gay, and airy. Possibly he anticipated a rosy-cheeked, rus- tic beauty, simple, ignorant, and docile, and, if so, his start of dismay was justified when he beheld a plain woman, no longer young, in last century raiment, and with an intract- able expression of will and decision on her countenance, arising out of long years of trial and self-dependence. 0 John, I am not a bit like what I used to be: when wo- men have to stand by themselves, it makes them hard, and rubs off all the little weak- nesses and prettinesses thht are their chief- est charm. You would not know me for the Maggie you left at eighteen. I have two lines between my eyes now, and gray hairs. Gray hairs, indeed; why, all my hair is gray! But my heart is warm for you, Johnny, and in the right place still, I hope; and if my face is faded, it is only like the rest of those who were young with me. One would not wish to see others grow old and leave us behind. But Mr. Worsley, I am sure, was disagreeably astonished, though he soon recovered his professional decorum, and while I was mentally ejaculating, How in the world am I to talk to this dandified gentleman? he was smoothing the way by his grave utterance of the regulation senti- ments on the occasion, and instilling into the fact mioht be a sob my mind that he er, clever man of business, notwithstanding his Adonis locks, and perfumed scrupulosity of attire; for he was as smart as if he ~vere going out courting. At the first pause I set aside my teacup, and asked if he had been my uncl& s adviser long. His, afiswer was, that Mr. Burfield had placed his affairs in the hands of his fathers firm as soon as he had any affairs to manageand that must have been nearly forty years ago. The answer was as curt as the question had been, but it satisfied me en- tirely. I said that was all I wanted to know, having had Mr. Burfields confidence so long, explanations of family divisions would 169 not be required from me. I then intimated that I should remain in town until every- thing was settled. I do not perceive that there was anything either premature or pe- culiar in this announcement; but Mr. Wors- by replied, with the ghost of a smile haunt- ing the corners of his handsome mouth, that the funeral was not arranged to take place until the day after the morrow. I have never seen my uncle. We were utter strangers to each ~ther, I said, hast- ily; for I fancied a rebuke was implied. If it were so, he did me injustice. I am in no haste to stand in the dead mans shoes. I fear they will prove a sore and irksome mis- fit to my feet; but there was nothing con- ventional in my notions, and I sat there without feigning the least regret; no more mourning in my heart than there was about my person. Mr. Worslcy is a man of dis- cernment; perhaps he might have preferred the exhibition of a little decent hypocrisy, but as that was not my cue, he had no call to quarrel with me for omitting a merely formal and empty observance. Mr. Bur- fields behavior had not been kinsman-like, so there need be no pretence of affection; and as I was about to reap from his death advantages which I could never have gained during his life, my impassiveness was more than excusable; under similar circumstances, many petsons would have found it hard to repress sentiments of glee and rejoicing. Now, though I was not glad, I should have earned my own contempt had I feigned sor- row; so, after a pause of somewhat awk- ward silence, I repeated, I have never seen my uncle, but I should like to see him there can be no objection, I l)resume. None whatever. You can even take up your abode at once in the house, if you wish~ it, replied the lawyer. I have no doubt he began to think me a most unwomanly wo- man. If I had been only tolerably young and good-looking he might have advanced some words of dissuasion, but entire free- dom of action might safely be accorded to so plain-featured and plaia-manaered a per- son. It was a motive of curiosity rather than any softer sentiment that actuated me in my desire to see my uncle. I wanted to get a personal idea of him; to judge, if I could from the clay mask, of the living and acting man, the fruits of whose busy labors I am t~ COMING INTO A FORTUNE. enjoy. I was not fatigued by my journey, and as soon as Mr. Worsley acceded to my proposition, I assumed my bonnet and cloak, and walked across with him to Russell Square. It was not dark, but it was darken- ing, and when we entered the ball of the house where our poor mothers brother had lived and died, it seemed to me filled with a dismalness that might be felt. The door was opened by a thick-set, white-headed, one-eyed little man; in plain clothes, who respectfully acknowledged Mr. Worsley, and then glanced with furtive curiosity at my- self. This lady is your late masters niece, Roberts, said the lawyer. Roberts per- formed a stiff obeisance, and waggled bow- legged to throw open the dining-room door. Mr. Worsley had partaken of many sump- tuous feasts at that mahogany, now reflect- ing the chandelier in a blank lake of polish. He is not given to sentimentfew of his age and profession arebut the silence and dimness of the familiar room seemed to strike him with a poignant regret. Mr. Burfield had been his friend from a boy, and though he might not entertain a very pro- found respect for his clients private charac- ter, he had for him the liking that grows out of long and intimate habit. There were several choice modern pictures on the walls; for, in his way, Mr. Burfield must have been a man of taste, and while Roberts, in obe- dience to the lawyers explanations, ~vent to summon Mrs. Proby, the housekeeper, I walked slowly round the room and examined them, as well as the twilight would permit. In a few minutes an elderly, respectable wo- man appeared at the door, carrying a green- shaded lamp, and intimated that she was xeady to conduct me up-stairs. Mr. XVors- ley glanced at my face as I turned to go, but he saw no more emotion expressed in it, than he had done when I stood before a landscape of Gainsboroughs, or a sea-piece of Stanfields. He remained below, think- ing, probably, what a queer woman his old clients country heiress was, while I followed the housekeeper up the echoing stairs. Without a word, Mrs. Proby unlocked the door of a large, bare room, uncarpeted and uncurtained; there was nothing beyond the necessary articles of furniture, a few Indian straw mats, and a great bath. Quite at the further end was a narrow iron bed- stead, scarcely raised a foot above the floor, covere4 by a single mattress, on which rest- ed the coffined remains of a man who was reported to have left upwards of half a mil- lion of money. I advanced and stood beside it; and the housekeeper, holding the lamp high in one hand, so as to throw down the most light, with the other uncovered the face. It was a very handsome face, large-feat- ured and shapely; what it might have worn in life of compression and sternness had now disappeared from it. You would have said a man once of keen intellect, generous dispositions, warm feelings, lay befbre you. I had not anticipated a countenance ~,rith any trace of nobleness whatever. Well, perhaps nature had meant him to be of one character, and his experience of the world had made him of another: in almost every life there is something maimed, something crushed, undeveloped, or concealed. He is not niuch changed, said Mrs. Proby, now speaking for the first ~time. When he was alive he was as fine-looking a gentleman as you could wish to see. He stood six foot two in his stockings. I asked if therewas any portrait of him in the house. She replied, No; the master was not one who thought much of himself, as I might tell from his room, which was as bare as a barrack. She afterwards added, that he died of a disease of the heart, and would have been seventy-one had he lived until his next birthday. He was, probably, a cold, reserved man to his inferiors, for Mrs. Proby said no single word in honor of her masters memory, neither did she insinuate anything to his prejudice. We descended the stairs as silently as we had gone up, and found Mr. Worsley talking to Roberts at the open street-door. lie met me and asked if I in- tended to take up my abode in the house, for, if so, the servants had better prepare for me. I said not until after the funeral; and then we left the square together. Mr. Worsley accompanied me to my hotel, and then took leave, promising to see me again on the morrow. When he was gone, to my surprise, the waiter, with great accession of deference in his manner, led the way to a comfortable room, explaining that on my arrival it had not been ready for occupation, and apologizing for having put me to th~ temporary inconvenience of my first lodging. I received what he said with an air of mi 170 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. plicit good faith, and afterwards paid for it in the bill. The curtains were drawn, a fire and wax candles lighted, and a second edi- tion of tea was on the table. On the whole, perhaps, I was not wrong in deciding that it is pleasant to possess what commands the outward respect and tangible comforts of this world. It was a relief to me to be alone, and to have leisure to think. Life was about to become to me a very different matter from what it had been. The fulfilment of many a wild day-dream was in my hand; the golden stones to make my castles in the air realities were heaped about my feet. How I would build, build, build! How charita- 9 ble I would be! How many desolate hearts I would cause to sing for joy! How many poverty-stricken homes would I brighten and fill with plenty! Nothing of personal lux- ury or indulgence entered into my provi- sions; I would be rich to do good, and rich for that only. From which glorified dreams the eye of my mind dropped down upon the narrow iron bed in the bare barrack-room, where the gatherer of the golden stones was resting from his weary labors. I am not usually a nervous or superstitious woman, but at that view my heart beat louder, and I glanced hastily into the dim corners of the room. I was glad to rise up and pace the floor, and count the gas-lamps gleaming through the night for company. Then, I tried to picture what Mrs. Jacques was about at that hour; next, I brought out a volume of St. Beuve and forced myself to read, but the admirable essayist was dumb for me. I could see noth- ing but the rigid outline of the massive cof- fined figure, the straight, stiff hands, the feet uplifting the drapery, and the marble hard- ness of the visage; and these struck on my memory more sharply, more vividly, than they had struck on my senses when I stood in his actual presence,just as a mortal peril recurs to us with thick heart-throbs when we have passed it and escaped. I re- called an old saw, which says that if we do not touch the dead when we see them they will haunt us until they are fallen into dust, and then I remembered that I had held back from my uncle with the same reserve as I should have met him living. It was a fool- i8h dread that assailed my excited imagina tion, but after struggling with it and endeav- oring to battle it down in vain, I determined to return to the house and break the spell Half-way across the square I was ready to laugh for shame at my weakness; I paused irresolute, and thought of turning back. But my folly was equal either waywhether I shrank from the possible ridicule of my uncles servants, or from the superstitious promptings of my own imagination; so I went forward and rang at the door. Rob- erts had put up the chain, drawn bolts and bars and locks, and made all secure for the night, and was therefore several minutes in opening to me. I heard the housekeeper speaking to him sharply, and saying, Who could it be? as she waited. When they saw me, their first idea evidently was that they had misunderstooct me as to when I was coming into the house to remain, and that I was coming now. But a few words undeceived them; I said plainly what I wished, and why I wished it. Master was the quietest man in the world, maam, murmured Roberts, smiling, but respectful, and no lover of tricks he wasnt neither, so surely hed never be up to the mischief of haunting anybody now. It was my distempered fancy, I said, thor- oughly ashamed of my weakness. Then, again, the housekeeper preceded me up- stairs, held her lamp aloft, and uncovered the dead mans face. I laid my hand on his foreheadthen kissed him. It is years, and years, and years, I should say, since master owned anybody that kissed him, observed Roberts, who had followed us into the room, and now stood at the foot of the bed with his one serviceable eye screwed up to concentrate its vision on the countenance. I inquired if he had served him long. Mrs. Proby and me have lived with him a matter of thirty years, havent we, Mrs. Proby? he said, appealing to the house- keeper. She answered with a brief affirma- tive, replaced the napkin over her masters face, and turned to the door. I apologized for giving so much trouble, which Mrs. Proby assured me was no trouble at all, and Roberts, having dragged on his great-coat, trotted the grotesque shadows of his bow legs beside me until he had seen me safely restored to my inn. 171 172 The fresh air had cooled my brain, for Uncle Burfield haunted me no more, but let me read in peace until I retired to bed. 0 John, I wish you were here to help me under my new cares! To speak literal truth, Ihave not enjoyed one serene, lazy hour, since I came into my fortune; and to me, without leisure, life will soon become a wearisome drag. It seems sometimes like a mockery, a cruel sarcasm, to have made me richat my years, too, when I was settled down into a certain monotony and quiet ease which suited my temper marvellously ~vell. My pretty room at Mrs. Jacquess, with its old-fashioned bow-window and lovely vie~v; its shelves choicely furnished with books, the precious gathering of a score of years; its summer seat with a glimpse of sea, and winter corner by the fire, was infi- nitely pleasanter than any of the rooms here. I have tried each one in turn, and not a cozy nook can I discover from the top to the bot- tom of the house. When Mr. Burfield had taken possession of his last narrow home in Kensal-green Cemetery, I took possession of his abdicated residence in Russell Square, and here I am. I have arrayed myself in complimentary mourning, have retained my uncles old servants, and am seeing my law- yer nearly every day. Our business is more tedious than complex. Three years before his death, Mr. Burfield had freed himself from all commercial speculations, and made careful investments of his great wealth. It is difficult for me to realize the vastness of my inheritance. It is all in funds, bonds, shares, debentures , ground-rei its, and mort gages; it brings no territorial associations or responsibilities. It is simply money, the hard gatherings of a hard life which was spent, or wasted, in the mere thankless labor of heaping up riches without object, without honor, and withont profit. And yet there was a romance in the old mans youtha little love-story which was touching in its simple truth. You are going to hear how I found it out. A few days after the funeral, Mr. Worsley called my attention to the necessity I was under of examining my uncles private pa- pers, which he had kept apart in a bureau in his bedroom; and one wet morning, imme- diately after breakfast, I set myself to the task, having first ordered a fire to be lighted, and the heavy piece of furniture to be moved COMING INTO A FORTUNE. into convenient proximity to it. I found them to consist chiefly of letters and mem- oranda of family interest, entirely discon- nected with business; and the first thing upon which I laid my hands was a packet of my own notes in acknowledgment of the paltry pension he allowed our dear mother during the four years preceding her death. I separated them and cast them on the fire: I am one of those people who destroy lum- berespecially sentimental lumber. The next was a bulky parcel bound round and sealed within a strip of parchment. It con- sisted of letters on the outer fold of which was ~vrittea the name and the date of each. They were about forty in number, and were arranged in numerical sequence. I smiled as I severed the strip of parchmeiit, saying to myself, that my uncle must have antici- pated somebody was lying in wait to write his biography, and so had got the material ready to his hands; but I was interested, and carefully arranging the mass, I began my task by taking each letter as it came. The first was labelled in a clear female hand: From dear Benjamin, at Shrews- bury School, 1804. It was a thorough schoolboys letter to a mother who loved him; less formal than such documents are when overlooked, and worse spelt, but more frank-hearted and affectionate. The writer was in some tribulation with his masters about his non-application to classical learn- ing, and wished his mother to plead with his father that the bent c-Z his education might be changed. It closed with a sort of calen- dar of the days up to the midsummer holi- days. The second was: From Ben to his sister Hetty. It was in scrupulous round- hand, profuse in capitals, and illustrated with grotesque pen-and-ink sketches of boys games for the amusement of a child. The artist had flattered neither himself nor his companions, but sister lletty must have chuckled over the l)ictules with exquisite de- light. I laughed over the discolored paper myself, and felt irresistibly softened towards Uncle Burfield. Once upon a time, that fos- silized gold-gatherer had cherished kind family affections. Then came a document written on a sheet of sermon-paper: From my Father at Dene Parsonage, 1804. The mother had spoken to the father for her son, and here was the answer to that plea. Ben- I jamin was reminded of the exertions that had COMING INTO A FORTUNE. been made at home to give him an educa- tion for the ministry, and exhorted to perse- vere. A few lines in the same strain~, hut more tender, had been added by his mother, and at the end sister Hetty seat him kisses. I pictured to myself the lads imjatient disap- pointment in reading all that vexatious good advice; and then took up the next letter: From my dear mother. The news of my Fathers Death. Dene Parsonage, 1808. It was very sorrowfulspoke of poverty, of leaving the home of her married life and the birthplace of her children, almost complain- ingly; spoke of her husband with wifely tenderness, respect, and regret. Benjamin must leave school and go to her. My dear son, though you are but a boy, I place all my reliance on your generous and affection- ate disposition, she wrote; and then went on to say how the plan for his entering the ministry must be given up from lack of means to send him to college. She trusted the almighty Father to raise up friends to her children, and her heart ached for a sight of her darling boy. In the next, the poor mothers heart had ceased aching and hoping forever. Orphan sister Hetty wrote to or- phan brother Ben a Christmas letter to cheer him in his dreadful dull lodging all alone in Holborn. Was he happy? Did he like his master, Mr. Parkinson? Had he any friends in the office? How she wished he was with her, and had some of Miss Stocks plum-pudding, though the plums were very scarce because of the high wind that was blowing up at Highgate when it was made. Should they ever, ever, ever have any more such Christmases as the Christmases at Dene when their father and mother were alive? She was afraid they never should. Her dear- est, dearest love to brothl3r Ben. That was our mother who wrote, Johncant you fancy you hear her tremulous, loving voice all through? I shall keep her letters for you till you come home, for home you must come now. Though during that wet morning I went through the whole long series of letters, that is no reason why they should be inflicted in continuity upon youa brief selection will be enough to show you what our Uncle Burfield once was, and how he must have changed.before you knew him. There were three more from Hetty to her brother at Mr. Parkinsons; still the same affectionate spirit pervaded them, and still the two were all in all to each other. Then I came upon a batch of six-and-twenty letters tied to- gether by themselves, and bearing an inscrip- tion iii my uncles hand: My own letters to Anne Cardigan; returned to me when she married William Hatherton Gabriel, 1817. Old love-letters, of coursethe faded ro- mance of Mr. Burfields life. The fascina- tion of curiosity drew me on to read what, perhaps, I ought to have passed over; and yet I am glad I read them, for they have helped me to think more kindly of his mem- ory. He was dry and concise enough in his correspondence with me, but when he was young he could write very fervently to sweet Anne Cardigan. She was his bonnie love, his darling mouse a dozen foolish, fond, endearing names, which sounded heartful, l)assionate, tender, after the lapse of more than a quarter of a cen- tury; but I piesently found myself doubting whether this sweet Anne Cardigan had in reality been quite worthy of the ardent love shed upon her. I learned our uncles early struggles from certain passages of this correspondence. He was a small-salaried clerk at Mr. Parkinsons, and lived with his sister in indifferent lodgings, where she had a garden three feet deep and seven feet long on the leads outside her window, and an uncommon show of flowers she has raised, I can tell you, Miss Quiz, though we have not such pure air as blows over your blessed nest. In the midst of his tenderer protes- tations the lover continually urged his fast improving prospects, and predicted that some day he should be rich enough to deck his delight in diamonds and cloth of gold, if her vain little heart coveted such sumptuos- ities. From often recurring allusions I was led to conjecture that this exacting maiden was possessed of a bewildering beauty, and of a vanity that craved much incense of ad- miration and flattery; that she was fond of dancing and fine company, gay dresses and extravagant parties of pleasure, and that, though a promised wife, she did not deny herself a train of followers, amongst whom the name of a certain ~Villiam Gabriel, oc- curred most frequently. Further on in the correspondence the progressive rises in the writers salary were chronicled, and one letter was almost entirely devoted to our mothers wooing and wedding; after which 173 COMING. INTO A FORTUNE. event he became gravely urgent that dear, hard-hearted Anne should complete her en- gagement, and become his wife. There was a rather bitter passage in this letter, in which he enumerated his claims upon her. Four years of service hard as Jacob served for Rachel, loving devotion, faith unwearied, a heart warm anti constant, a home simple and sufficient, and a purse containing three hun- dred and fifty golden portraits of his gracious majesty annually renewed. Anne, dear, hard- hearted Anne, will you marry me now, or will you put me off until I am as old, rich, and decrepit as Andrew Parkinson, who bought him a handsome wife last week with the fat store in his ancient money-bags?~~ It seemed that Anne must have elected to wait for wealthier days, as the succeeding epistle was intermixed with reproaches on that score. You think too much of money, Anne, it said; a fine house would not make you happy. Money will not buy love, joy, youth, health, which are our glorious possession. You are foolishly afraid of pow. ertybut you would never be poor with me. o Anne, if you would only be brave for your love! I know I could content you if once I had you with me all my own. Though we cannot begin with a fine house, a carriage, and contingent embarrassments, I know my fortune will grow up to them. My darling, you would crowd all life into twelve months space if you had your will. Write me a dear kind letter like a sweet sensible Anne, and tell me you have reconsidered your hard sen- tence, and are ready to revoke it. Darling, I cannot iive and he a good man without you. All the letters after this were alter- nations of I)assionate love, bitter reproach, and angry recriminations. The name of William Gabriel now occurred with jealous repetition ; questions, suspicions, charges, were founded upon it, as the result proved, but too justly. The last, which told the end of the story, was almost cruel in its tone of contemptuous rebuke. You will be miser- able, Anne, miserable in the midst of all William Gabriel can give you, because you do not love him; but you will deserve every pang, every mean degrading torture, because you are selling yourself for money where a woman should only give herself for love. Thus closed the one sentimental episode of our Uncle Burfields life. XVhat think you of it, John? It seems to me that Anne Car- digan soured an honest manly spirit, and turned the sweet waters of his life into bit.. terr?ess. When I continued my researches, another miscellaneous packet came to hand, at the top of which were some of our grandfathers letters to his son at school. I read one or two, but finding them mere sonorous John- sonian compositions, with little personal in- terest, I passed thcm over, and went on to a group inscribed: From William Gabriel, after the failure of Gabriels bank, 1826. Another followed: From William Gabriel at Boulogne, 1827; and the next after that was From William Gabriels widowa begging petition to which I did not reply, 1827. The date of this letter placed it ten years after that which closed their correspond- ence as lovers. In that interval Mr. Bur- field had got on in the world, had hardened and taken the gold fever, had given up his faith in the better part of human nature, and pensioned his widowed sister with a grudging parsimony. Of this period were a few ill- composed documents in a female hand, curi- ously intermixed of affection and calculation; that correspondence had its climax in an epistle of profuse acknowledgment for some satisfactory pecuniary arrangement which Mr. Worsley had been empowered to make, and then it ceased altogether. From first to last the letters from this hand spread over a space of eight years. Then came several more from William Gabriels widow, all ut- tering a cry of destitution and a plea for help. For a long time it appeared that Mr. Burfield had turned a deaf ear to these peti- tions, but, at length, there was a note thank- ing him for a donation which, she said, had enabled her to procure medical aid for her child, then lying sick of a fever. All her subsequent letters continued to describe her as poor and struggling vainly to educate her son. Mr. Burfields charity was appealed to in every one, and there were many allusions to former days which, perhaps, she would have been glad to bring back; but, some- how, she failed of being pathetic; such allu- sions echoed less of past affection than of present regret. Her 0 my dear and true friend, had I but listened to you, and fol- lowed the dictates of my own heart when we were both young, how different no~v would have been my condition! had all the me- tallic resonance which had jarred out of tune 174 COMING INTO A FORTUNE. forever the finest chords of Mr. Burfields breast. I could not help feeling annoyed that he should have so often complied with the. clamorous demands of this mercenary woman. She wearied him by her importu- nity. From William Gabriels widow, for money. Sent her 50, occurred again and again. But at length there came one letter, simpler in expression, briefer, and more nat- ural, upon the enclosure of which was writ- ten, Annes last letter, two days before her death, 1838. Dear friend, she said, towards the end of it, I have not strength to write much to you now, beyond begging you to be kind to my boy, and humbly eatreating you to pardon the great, great wrong I once did you. I have long known how it poisoned your life, though you have been so nobly good to me, who deserved nothing at your hands but scorn. I see now how wicked and cruel my conduct to. you was, but I did not see it then, and I have suffered for it sorely since. I pray you and the Almighty to forgive me. If I had my life to live over again, I would live it very differently. This brought me to the end of the assorted letters; there were a few of no moment ly- ing loose in the desk, and a thick bundle of newspaper extracts, which I kept for leisure perusal, seeing they were contemporary ac- counts of events most of which have passed into the obscurity of ancient history. Then there was a .packet of mourning cards, which showed that Mr. Burfield had outlived many friends and acquaintance; then there was a dog& brass collar, engraved with his mas- ters name and place of ahode; and there was an old faded red silk huswife, with rusty needles and threads in it still, and within the pocket was a card and a lock of tarnished yellow hairthe card was a common visit- ing-card, with Miss Anne Cardigan printed upon it, and across one corner was written, Come early to-night. The last thing was a fiat case of miniatures painted upon ivory; each portrait being set separately in a nar- row rim of gold, with a ring attached for a chain to be passed t~hrough. They are fam- ily likenesses: our grandfather, grandmother, and probably great-aunts and unclesthey are quite old by the costumes, and I do not recognise any. When my task was accomplished, I stretched my arms above my head ~vith a grateful sense of relief; then leaving the bureau open to air, after its delivery of its musty secrets, I descended to the drawing- room, to indulge a brief spell of reflection over my discoveries. Do I weary you, dear John? Have I gossiped long enough? But consider the greatness of the occasionand I have nearly done. When I came to inquire of Mr. Worsley, I found that the son of Mrs. Gabriel is still living, and in good repute as an artist; if you read the art criticisms in our papers and magazines, which probably find their way out to Melbourne, you must know his name. Mr. Burfield brought him up after his moth- ers death thou~h without future expecta- a tions from himself, but he left him a legacy of a thousand pounds. With the exception of bequests to his old servants, and the gift of two valuable paintings to his physician, no name besides my own occurs in the will. But though our uncle did not choose to re- member you, my dear brother, it will be all the same as if he had made us equal; for what is mine is yours. I am alone in the world, with few friends and no ties of kin- dred but yourselveswill you come home again with Mary and the children I have never seen? I shall be very restless until I hear from you, and for myself I shall neither do nor devise anything. When I can escape from the lawyers and the inevitable business entailed on me by my heiress-ship, I shall return to my lodgings at Mrs. Jacquess and there stay until news of you reaches me. Think of me as unsettled and anxious mean- while, and do not delay to write. It is much to ask of you to break up the connections and habits of twenty years, but to those born and bred in dear old England, methiaks it must always be felt as Home. My dear love to Mary and all your darlings, and every blessing on yourself. MAILGAItET STANSFIELD. 175 GENERAL BUTLERS FAREWELL. FAREWELL ADDRESS OF GEN. BUTLER. Citizens of New Orleans: It may not be inappropriate, as it is not inopportune in oc- casion, that there should be addressed to you a few words at parting, by one whose name is to be hereafter indissolubly connected with your city. I shall speak in no bitterness, because I am not conscious of a sinale personal animos- ity. Commanding the Army of the Gulf, I found you captured; but not surrendered; conquered, but not orderly; relieved from the presence of an army, but incapable of taking care of yourselves. So far from it, you had called upon a foreign legion to protect you from yourselves. I restored order, pun- ished crime, opened commerce, brought pro- visions to your starving people, reformed your currency, and gave you quiet protec- tion, such as you had not enjoyed for many years. While doing this my soldiers were sub- jected to obloquy, reproach, and insult. And now, speaking to you, who know the truth, I here declare that whoever has qui- etly remained about his business, affording neither aid nor comfort to the enemies of the United States, has never been interfered with by the soldiers of the United States. The men who had assumed to govern you and to defend your city in arms having fled, some of your women flouted at the presence of those who came to protect them. By a simple order (No. 28) I called upon every soldier of this army to treat the women of New Orleans as gentlemen should deal with the sex, with such effect that I now call~upon the just-minded ladies of New Orleans to say whether they have ever enjoyed so com- plete protection and calm quiet for them- selves and their families as since the advent of the United States troops. The enemies of my country, unrepentant and implacable, I have treated with merited severity. I hold that rebellion is treason, and that treason persisted in is death, and any punishment short of that due a traitor gives so much clear gain to him from the clemency of the government. Upon this thesis have I administered the authority of the United States, because of which I am not unconscious of complaint. I do not feel that I have erred in too much harshness, for that harshness has ever been exhibited to. dis- loyal enemies of my country and not to loyal friends. To be sure I might have regaled you with the amenities of British civilization, and yet been within the suoposed rules of civilized warfare. You might have been smoked to death in caverns, as were the Covenanters of Scotland by the command of a generahof the royal house of England; or roasted like the inhabitnnts of Al a iers dur- ing the French campaign: your wives and daughters might have been given over to the ravisher as were the unfortunate dames of Spain in the Peninsular war; or you might have been scalped and tomahawked as our mothers were at Wyoming by savage allies of Great Britain in our own Revolution; your property could have been turned over to indiscriminate loots like the palace of the Emperor of China; works of art which adorned your buildings might have been sent away like the paintings of the Vatican; your sons might have been blown from the mouths of cannon like the Sepoys at Delhi; and yet all this would have been ~vithin the rules of civilized warfare as practised by the most polished and the most hypocritical nations of Europe. For such acts the records of the doings of some of the inhabitants of your city towards the friends of the Union, before my coming, were a definite provocative and justification. But I have not so conducted. On the contrary, the worst punishment inflicted, ex- cept for criminal acts punishable by every law, has been banishment with labor to a barren island, where I encamped my own soldiers before marching here. I~ is true IL have levied upon the wealthy rebel, and paid out nearly half a million of dollars to feed forty thousand of the starv- ing poor of all nations assembled here, made so by this war. I saw that this rebellion was a war of the aristocrats against the middling men: of the rich against the poor; a war of the land- owner against the laborer; that it was a struggle for the retention of power in the hands of the few against the many; and I found no conclusion to it save in the subju- gation of the few and the disenthralmeat of the many. I therefore felt no hesitation in taking the substance of the wealthy who had caused the war, to feed the innocent poor who had suffered by the war. And I shall now leave you with the proud consciousnes~ that I carry with me the blessings of the 176 GENERAL BUTLER S FAREWELL. humble and loyal under the roof of the cottage and in the cabin of the slave, and so am quite content to incur the sneers of the salon or the curses of the rich. I found you trembling at the terrors of servile insurrection. All danger of this I have prevented by so treating the slave that he had no cause to rebel. I found the dungeon, the chain, and the lash your only means of enforcing obedience in your servants. I leave them peaceful, la- borious, controlled by the laws of kindness and justice. I have demonstrated that the pestilence can be kept from your borders. I have added a million of dollars to your wealth in the form of new land from the batture of the Mississippi. I have cleansed and improved your streets, canals, and public squares, and opened new avenues to unoccupied land. I have given you freedom of elections, greater than you have ever enjoyed before. I have caused justice to be administered 80 impartially, that your own advocates have unanimously complimented the judges of my appointment. You have seen, therefore, the benefit of the laws and justice of the government against which you have rebelled. Why, then, will you not all return to your allegiance to that governmentnot with lip service, but with the heart P I conjure you, if you desire ever to see re- newed prosperity giving business to your streets and wharvesif you hope to see your city become again the mart of the west- ern world, fed by its rivers for more than three thousand miles, draining the commerce of a country gre~ter than the mind of man bath ever conceivedreturn to your alle- giance. If you desire to leave to your children the inheritance you received of your fathers,a stable, constitutional government,if you desire that they should in the future be a portion of the greatest empire the sun ever shone uponreturn to your allegiance. There is but one thing that stands in the way. THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 976 There is but one thing that, at this hour, stands between you and the government, and that is slavery. The institution, cursed of God, which has taken its last refuge here, in his providence will be rooted out as the tares from the wheat, although the wheat be torn up with it. I have given much th~ught to this subject.. I came among you, by teaching, by habit of mind, by political position, by social af.- finity, inclined to sustain your domestic laws, if by possibility they might be with safety to the Union. Months of experience and of observatio7a have forced the conviction that the existence of slavery is incompatible with the safety either of yourselves or of the Union. As the system has gradually grown to its present huge dimensio~~s, it were best if it could be gradually removed; but it is better, far bet- ter, that it should be taken out at once than that it should longer vitiate the social, polib. ical, and family relations of your country. I am speaking ~vith no philanthropic views as regards the slave, but simply of the ef- fect of slavery on the master. See for yourselves. Look around you nnd,say whether this saddening, deadening influence has not all but destroyed the very framework of your society. I am speaking the farewell words of one who has shown his devotion to his country, at the peril of his life and fortune, who in these words can have neither hope nor inter- est, save the good of those whom he ad- dresses; and let me here repent, with all the solemnity of an appeal to Heaven to hear me witness, that such are the ~iews forced upon me by experience. Come, then, to the unconditional support of the government. Take into your own hands your own institutions; remodel them according to the laws of nations and of God, and thus attain that great prosperity assured to you by geographical position, only a por- tion of which was heretofore yours. 177 178 TUE PRESIDENTS MESSAGE. From The Spectator, 20 Dec. ports of the South, or seize English vessels THE PRESIDENTS MESSAGE, for carrying cotton, or ohject to the English THE second Message of Mr. Lincoln shows sale of arms to men who would then he oniy him to ho still what he has always been, a the subjects of an allied and friendly power. shrewd, second-rate lawyer, very ignorant of Foreign nations cannot note a rebellion un- foreign affairs and very well acquainted with less it attain certain proportions, and in this those of his own country, with a few immov- case, an affected ignorance would have in- able convictions, and many floating and jured the President and not his opponents. somewhat dreamy ideas, having a tolerably Apart from that blunder, however, the Mes- clear view of the end to which he aspires, sage is, on foreign relations, tranquil, concil- and but a faint perception of the mode in iatory, and dignified in intent if not in phra- which that end is uhimately to be attained. seology. No power in Europe can take To men who can only judge by the outside, offence at its wording, nor can any one say who are critics in grammar and careful for that the Republic bends to dictation; or the dignity of officials, the document may craves in any undignified way for forcign for- seem weak or even contemptible, hut to those bearance. The words might have been more who rememberthat Cromwell could not speak,, elegant, but the astutest diplomatist could or Bentham write intelligibly, and who will have accomplished no more, and might, therefore take the trouble to search for in- perhaps, have shown a reticence less com- stead of merely receiving ideas, it will, we plete. think, become sufficiently suggestive. It was not, however, for anything Mr. un M. Thuter, as in duty bound, reported the coln might say upon foreign relations that paragraph on foreign relations first. The the Message delayed in the Persia was ex- President, having been a workman and be- peeted with so much eagerness. Since the ing -a lawyer, has little to say on that sub- last Message a new party h s come into ject, and that little is not very valuable, ex- power, and the people have informally cen- cept as a sign or indication of the ideas he sured Mr. Lincolns administration. Under strives in vain to express. He is not malig- the strange American Constitutionstrange nant against for~gn countries; 6~n the con- because, though democratic in form, it was trary, thinks they have behaved rather bet- devised to retard the action of the popular ter than he had expected, the nation being willthis vote is not at all conclusive. The so unhappily distracted. England, in par- President may obey it or not, and, except by ticular, has displayed a jealous respect revolutionary means, the victorious party is for the American flag in the matter of slave- powerless to impede his action. Mr. Lin- traders, and the powers of the American coIn, however, has from the first explained continent express sentiments rather more that he is the exponent of the national will, friendly than has been hitherto usuala and the world waited anxiously to see how remark intended for France. The recent far he would recognize the identity of that effcWt at mediation is passed over without a will with Democratic ideas. He has not rec- word, without anger or remonstrance, or even ognized it. Amidst a cloud ot words and appreciation, as if it were a trifle, too small phrases, which, often clever, are always too to divert or even disturb the mighty current numerous, a careful observer may detect two of American progress. There is a dignity in clear and definite thoughts. 1. The Presi- this silence which, were the Message but dent will assent to no peace upon any terms short, and penned by the ruler of a great which imply a dissolution of the Union. 2. European State, Englishmen would be the He holds that the best reconstruction will be first to acknowledge. As it is, they note that which is accompanied by measures for only the strange ignorance which made the the final extinction of slavery. Upon the President hope, in June, that Europe would question of peace the President expresses cease to recognize the South as belligerents, ideas which, however quaint, have neverthe- and induces him even now to express his he- less a kind of dreamy vastness not without lief that this act of - simple justice is only its attraction. The thoughts of the man are delayed. Obviously Mr. Lincoln is not too big for his mouth. A nation, he says, aware that were the South not a belligerent, is made up of its territory and the popula- he could not, except by a law, close all the tion upon it, and, if the people can be divided, TUE PRESIDENT~ S MESSAGE. the earth abideth forever. A generation may be crushed, but the Union cannot be sundered. Its rivers all debouch in one sec- tion and take their rise in another. The North might live by itself, and the South might survive apart, but both are hut the outside husk, or, as Mr. Hawthorne once put it, the fringe upon the garment of the XVest. That mighty territory with its j~ resent millions and coming tens of millions as no outlet towards the sea, except through territories which in the event of disruption, would be governed by alien powers. The Southern outlet might suffice to the West, or the Northern, or the one which stretches to the Pacific; but all are better than either, and all of right belong to this people and their successors forever. There is no possi- ble severing of the land but would multiply and not mitigate the evils among us. It is an oddly worded argument, the earth being treated throughout as if it were a living creature, an Estate of the Republic with an equal vote on its destiny; but it neverthe- less expresses the dominant thought of the people whom, in their weaknesses as well as their strength, Mr. Lincoln represents. He will fight on, careless of cost, which, as he says, when speaking of another expenditure, with a curiously shrewd appeal to the Amer- ican love of size and the American passion for dollars, will be no overwhelming burden for so immense an empire. In 1900 the Republic undivided will contain a hundred millions; in 1925, two hundred and seven- seen millions; a power which, though the President does not say so, would, if its co- hesion were possible, inevitably dictate terms to the world. The President then will willingly make no peace, for there is no line, straight or crooked, which can serve as a boundary; yet he keenly abhors the war. Well aware, in spite of democratic falsehoods and Eng- lish mistakes, that slavery is the sole cause of disruption, he offers his plan for the grad- ual but final extinction of the great Ameri- can curse. Speaking, as he has done all through, as if he still were the ruler of the undivided Union, he suggests to Congress to authorize a change in their constitutional law, an ultimate policy on which reconstruc- tion might become possible. If the war goes on, his pr~Aamation of September, enfran- chising all slaves in disloyal States will, on the 1st January, come inevitably into force. Mr. Lincoln stoops to no explanation, or softening, or withdrawal of that tremendous decree. But if the South, wise in time, returns to its duty before that day, then it is possible to secure its interests without giving up the cause of freedom. Three- fourths of the States, if appealed to by Con- gress, can add to the Constitution clauses abolishing slavery before the year 1900, and pledging the United States to repayment of the full value of slaves calculated at an av- erage of 100 a bead. The sum is enor- mousfour hundred millions of pounds; but it is less than double the debt incurred by two years of war. It will be distributed over half a century; and it will be borne by a people who, when the work is complete, will be a hundred millions of men. The proposal has disappointed European lovers of freedom, for between Mr. Lincolns strange verbiage and democratic misrepre- sentation, they have failed to grasp his intent, or the magnitude of the fact which that intent involves. The President, so far from going back from the policy of freedom, has taken a longer step in advance. If the South con- tinue to fight, their slaves will be emanci- pated without their consent, as a measure essential to war. That is settled, so settled that Mr. Lincoln but once alludes to the point. But if they accept the alternative offered in that proclamation, and return by the 1st of January, even then Mr. Lincoln proposes that slavery shall come to an end. The people are to accept the consequences of their own guilt, and at the cost of enor- mous taxation to set themselves free of crime. He is still bound by the paper ~vithes of the Constitution, still unwilling to make freedom the condition of State rights, still indisposed to declare slavery a sin as well as a bad economical system. His actual plan, too, is a poor one, for it allows the slaveholders to postpone action for forty years, and at the end of that time the blacks will be eighteen millions, not four. But, for the first time, an American President has risen to the con- ception of universal emancipation without conditions of color, without involuntary ex- pulsion, and with an effort to compensate all who will suffer under that social change. There is little fear; we believe, that the pro.. posal will be accepted. The South will not come in, and without the South no legal con- 179 A CURIOUS REVELATION. vention can be summoned until the States are divided; but failing or successful, Mr. Lincoln has still the credit of having been first among American statesmen to rise to the situation, the first to strive that recon- 8truction shall not mean a ne~v lease for the human bondage, the first to warn the nation that its glory or its dishonor depends on its decision of this one point. Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape his- tory. We of this Congress will be remem- bered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance or insignificance can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we I)C55 will light us down in honor or dishonor to the latest generation. We say that we are for the Union. The world will not forget that while we say this we do know how to save the Union. The world knows we do know how to save it. XVe, even we here, hold the power and bear the responsi- bility. In giving freedom to the slave we assure freedom to the free, honorable alike in what ~ve give and what we preserve. We shall nobly save or meanly lose the last, best hope of the earth. The mills of the gods grind slowly; but when an American President can take and express that view of the great national offence, then surely, amidst all our ixapa- tient doubts, the world is not moving back. warned them that in no evunt could the Union survive the Presidential election of 1860, though it might possibly break up be- fore that; urged them to be prepared; leav- ing with his dying words the sacred cause of Southern secession a solei~n legacy in their handsto have told this to the Norths and Dartmouths of the present day, with more and even stronger evidence of the coming events of November, 1860, would have been like speaking to the stones of the street. In. November, 1860, they were thoroughly igno- rant of all the momentous antecedents of secessionof their nature, their character, their bearing, import, and consequences. Of course the leader of the south hero spoken of is John C. Calhoun. It appears that the traitors of Calhouns time counted as much on the help of England for the carry- ing out of their perfidious plots against tho Union as their followers of this day. Tho index correspondent says: In the year 1841 the late Sir William Na- pier sent in two plans for subduing the Union to the War Office, in the first of which the South was to be treated as an enemy, in the second as a friend and ally. I was much consulted by him as to the second plan, and was referred to by name in it, as he showed by the acknowledgment of this in Lord Fitz- roy Somersets letter of reply. This plan _________ fully provided for the contingency of an in- vasion of Canada, and its application would From The N. Y. Evening Post, 3 Jan. in eighteen or twenty months, have reduced A CURIOUS REVELATION, the North to a much more impotent condi tion than it exhibits at prescnt. At this ThE London Index, a journal set up by very moment the most difficult portion of rebel agents to support the cause of Davis, that plan has been perfectly accomplished by has, in its number for December 4th, a re- the South itself; and the North, in accord. markahle statement by a correspondent, who ance with Sir William Napiers expectations, is, perhaps, Mr. Mason. He says: now lies helpless before England, and at our absolute mercy. Nor is there any doubt of To tell the Norths, the Bates, the Wed- this, and if Lord Palmerston is not aware derburns of the present day, that previous of it, Mr. Seward certainly is. We have to the year 1839 the sovereign states of the nothing remaining to do hut to stretch out South had unalterably resolvedon the spe- our arm in the way Sir William Napier pro- cific ground of the violation of the Federal posed, and the Northern powerpower, as Constitution by the tariff of spoliation which we ignorantly call itmust come to an end. the New En~land States had imposed upon Sir William knew and well estimated the themto secede from the Union; to tell elements of which that quasi-power con- them that in that year the leader of the South sisted; and he knew how to apply the sub- urged an English gentlemanto whom he stantive power of England to dissolve it. In had fully explained the position of the South, the best interests of humanity, I venture to and the intolerable tyranny which the North say that it is the duty of England to apply inflicted upon it, to be the bearer of creden- this power without further delayits duty tials from the chief persons of the South, in to itself, to its starving operatives, to France, order to invite the attention of the British to Europe, and to humanity. And in tho Government to the coming event; that on his discharge of this great duty to the world at death-bed he called around him his political large there will not even be the dignity of friendsone of whom is now in England sacrifice or danger. 180 181 THE STATESMANSHIP OF THE PRINCE CONSORT. All this is, of course, written pretendedly eagerness for it, which makes the head of from an English point of view, and advocates ambitious ahility swim. It is far easier for British intervention on the score that it a man of firstrate judgment and decision to would he beneficial to England to help in the fill to admiration even a thorny throne, like destruction of the American Union. that of Leopold, than such h position as that It shows, if it is not a pure invention, that held by the late Prince Consort. The publi- for many years slaveholding politicians, who cation of the princes correspondence with the have most loudly shouted for the Union, have Duke of Wellington, concerning the corn- been secretly conspiring against it; it shows mand of the army in l8~O, brings home this that they and their great master, Calhoun, conviction very forcibly to our minds. In had the inexpressible meanness to count the prime of life, conscious of great discrimi- from the first upon the help of England and nation, much sagacity, and much organizing Englishmen to dishonor and humble their power, the Prince Consort was pressed by own country; it shows that in a time when one who commanded the confidence of the England and America ~vere at peace and British nation to assume a post quite the friendly po~vers the British Government per- most brilliant likely eveP to be within his mitted itself to consider plans for destroying reach. Had he taken it, he, no doubt, felt this country; and had, officially, plans laid that, as regarded specific qualification alone, before it for that end. It shows finally, that he was fully able to discharge its duties, and the people of this country have for many to do so ably. The modest disclaimer which years been most basely deceived, by the he put in upon this head cvidently did not treachery of a set of slaveholding dema- weigh much even with that discriminating gogues, who were plotting their ruin, and I brain. The Prince Consort would have in- who had so far prepared the way, abroad, curred no danger of losing presence of mind that they counted with confidence upon the under its responsibilities; but most men of assistance of Great Britain. Why that help equal ability would certainly have lost pres- was withheld, cvcry one knows: the people ence of mind in face of the temptation. To of Great Britain, at the last moment, re- see so high a prize glittering before him, and fused to let their Government be prosti- know that if he refused it he must make up tuted to give open aid to the slaveholdiag his mind never, in all probability, to emerge rebels. But the British ruling class has been out of the shadow of the throne, would have constantly friendly to the slaveholders. seized on almost any other imagination with a blinding force. This is the sort of itua tion which tests somcthiag more than mere judgment,that humility which is an essen- tial elemcnt in all fine moral discrimination, From The Spectator. hut which is so seldom useful to the worldly THE STATESMANSHIP OF THE PRINCE career of an able and ambitious man. The CONSORT. Prince Consort showed distinctly that he not Wu hear often of the giddiness which only understood his duty, but that he fully seizes men of the finest genius and judg- comprehended that his duty was compara- went, when they have reached the summit tively very humble. It was his duty, he said, of their ambition. But the point at which to sink his own individual existence in that any but the highe. t kind of character is most of his wife, to fill up every gap which, apt to feel that giddiness which blinds it to as a woman, she would naturally leave in the the true situation, is not at the summit, but exercise of her royal functions. Nay, he a step or two below iti Men of real ability, went further, and set down boldly in writing at least if they are also men of culture, are what this re Ily meant; as the natural head rather steadied than be~vildered by the sense of her family, superintendent of her house of commanding a field adequate to their pow- hold, manager of her private a~$airs, sole ers. Consummate judgment is far more ha- confidential adviser in polities, and only as- ble to a momentary attack of vertigo from sistant in her communications with the ofli- unsatisfied, than from satisfied desirefrom cers of the Government, he is, besides the the proximity of the prize than from its pos- husband of the queen, the tutor of the royal session. It is not the elevation, but the children, the private secretary of the sover 182 THE STATESMANSHIP OF THE PRINCE CONSORT. eign, and her permanent minister. This the Memoir calls the beauty of usefulness. could not be to an ambitious man a list of t There exists; iadeed, a striking similarity duties which would compare in brilliancy between the tone of the princes speeches, with the post he declined; but the prince felt the subjects he evidently chooses by prefer- that they were his first duties, and that to ence, the mode in which he treats them, perform them well he should aim at no the favorite schemes of the great Weimar power by himself or for himself, should shun Geheimrath. For instance, the prince evi- all ostentation, and assume no separate re- dently entered deeply by choice into the best sponsibility before the country, and he did mode of alleviating the wretchedness of the not hesitate in his decision. Still that deci- poor mans home, the improvement of the sionright as it unquestionably was in mere methods of agriculture, the best economy of prudence, for what might not have resulted social life. These are subjects which natu- if the excitement of the public mind conse- rally attract a calm, benignant mind, bent on quent on the disasters of the Crimean war, introducing a finer harmony into the tangle had taken I)lace under the nominal responsi- of the life around it. His was a humane in~ bility of the Prince Consort Pinvolved a st:nct overruled by a positive pleasure in the very high degree of the rarest of all states- delicate adaptation of means to ends. Just so, man-like qualities, a considerate humility, one of Goethes first efforts as a minister was disturbed by no mist of vanity, and absolute to introduce a more orderly principle of ad- master o~ its own range of duty. It is im- ministration into the little Weimar army, and possible to pass by so remarkable an instance to organize a Fire-brigade for the town. Th~ of simple and yet, in some sense, command- poet-minister had a strong individual taste ing self-denialfor there is a clear command for disciplining the confused energies of a of himself and of the situation in every line helpless crowd, and had directed the volun- of the correspondence and memorandum teers in extinguishing three serious fires at without recurring with profound gratitude to much risk to himself, before he dealt with the memory of the statesman who has taught the matter as a minister. The late Prince us this highest and rarest of all the qualities Consort displays exactly the same kind of of true statesmanship, or without tendering administrative taste in these speeches, and our heartiest thanks to the queen for permit- displayed it also in his life, lie goes, for in- ting this noblest of political lessons to be stance, into the subject of the Servants incorporated in the valuable memorial * we Provident and Benevolent Society, with just have just received of the prince, the same kind of nrtistic providence with Indeed, without this unique passage in the which Goethe entered into the organization princes life, we should scarcely be able to of the Fire Brigade. En0lish philanthropists construct any complete picture of the char- attack such subjects with a certain exclusive- acter of his statesmanship. We can see from ness of practical interest, which is widely other sources that he was what we may call distinguishable intellectually from the atti- a statesman of the calm artistic type, a type tude of mind of which we are speaking. It little if at all known in England, and cer- was not merely the good done, but the an- tainly not a natural product of our Constitu- archy reduced,the harmonizing principle tion. The speeches as well as the tastes de- engrafted on chaos,which gratified the fine scribed in the introductory Memoir, remind ~sthetic instinct of the Prince Consort in one strongly of the type of statesmanship such works as these; and in this it is that *hich the poet Goethe devoted to the service he reminds us of the delicate administrative of the Grand Duke of Weimar,though, of taste of the shrewd poet of Weimar. course, formed on much wider and weightier But the Prince Consort, though a states- experience. There is the same distinct or- man of the calm artistic type, evinced in the deny mind, the same horror of maladminis- negotiation to which we have before referred, tration, the same sense of art in practical a gift as rare in that school as it is in the life, the same value for what the editor of less deliberate school of English statesman- ship. Whatever the peculiar gifts of the ~ The Principal Speeches and Addresses of us artistic type of statesmanship may be, hu- Royal iiqliness the Prince Consort: with an Intro.. duction giving some Outline of his Character. ~iur- mility is quite as rarely one of them as of the ray. hotter English type. There is a peculiar MORALS UNDER THE EMPIRE. 183 vein of aristocratic temperament in every the ends of despotism as that kind of low true artistic constitution, even when not be- literature which is the prostitution of intel- longing to a man of high ranka vein which lect, and can have no other effect than that shows itself again and again, not only in the of undermining all manly feeling. It was a speeches of the late Prince Consort, but in maxim much in vogue among French men the fine lines of that fastidious face. Now, and women of fashion in the last century, this aristocratic sense is apt to smother the that love is more relishable than marriage germs of humility, and certainly smothered for about the same reason which renders ro- them in Goethe. That the Prince Consort, mances more relishable than history. But retained so true and simple a humility of why are romances of the lowest description judgment in spite of this temperament and more relished than history, by so many peo- in spite of the blinding lights to which his ple in France at present, if not because vice station in life exposed him, is a lesson in is by them more relished than virtue? Who- true nobility to Englishmen of all stations ever is acquainted With that class of French which the nation ought never to forget. novels of which Fannys may be said to be the type, knows well enough to what extent __________ their sentimentality is sensual and their re finement coarse. Yet these are not the pro- ductions I mean to allude to. Books have From The Spect~ tor. flooded France far worse than those of MM. MORALS UNDER Till; EMPIRE. Feydean and Flaubert, however emasculat- [raoi~s OUR SPECIAL CORRE5PONDE~T.] ing the latter; and the Imperial Govern- NEED I call to mind in what way the Im- ment seems to have witnessed ~vith uncon penal Government has, from the beginning, cern the growing success of a prurient dealt with history, science, general litern- literature quite worthy of the period. ture; and how the study of philosophy was Not that the Imperial Government con- virtually prohibited at the Ecole Normale, siders it its duty not to interfere with the that nursery for teachers; and how the very book-trade. Just the reverse. At no period name of philosophy became hateful to the were the book-firms made to depend so en- reigning power as connected with revolu- tirely on the pleasure of those in power. tionary propensities; and how the instruc- Not only is every dealer manacled by the oh- tion given to any such as study for the bach- ligation of obtaining from Government a elorship of letters was curtailed; and what patent, whichmark it wellis revocable at implacable war was waged, not only against will; but the hawkers (colporteurs), through the College de France, but against the whose medium the book-trade is chiefly car- Institut, more especially distasteful to ned out, are directly and strictly kept under Ca~sanism, because intended to foster the control, so much so, that they are not allowed worship of intellectual merit? It is but to sell one single copy of any book, without natural that the gross material enjoyments having had that copy duly stamped at the which civilization can procure should be cx- Ministry of the Interior, and enriched with elusively sought after, where i~o enjoyments the following inscription: Suret6 G~n~r- of a higher class are in favor with those in ale. It is, in fact, the system of passports whose hands lies the moving force. Love applied to the peregrinations of the human of riches, love of pleasures, luxury, gambling, mind. The favor conferred by the Govern- extravagant passion for dress, these are the meat on a certain class of most objectionable springs which~ the empire, on the very day publications cannot, therefore, be mistaken of its establishment, made it a point to set for impotence. The rule is that whatever a-goingbetter to avert mens minds from comes to light in France has been permitted politics, and so to lower the level of the na- to come to light, and, consequently, involves tion as to make a tame, degrading submis- the moral responsibility of Government. sion to despotism more acceptable. God forbid I should complain that the See- No wonder that a Government, thus bent ond Empire does not make a still more cx- on mischief, should have winked systemati- tensive use of the formidable weapons that cally at the licentiousness of novel-writers, are at its disposal; hut is it not very remark- for nothing is so well calculated to further able that such books as M. Michelets Sor THE AFGHANISTAN OF TO-DAY. c~ress should be stopped, whilst such books as La Vie de Iligolboclie have triumphantly gone through an almost indefinite number of editions? The reason is that the deprav- ity of manners is one of the props of despot- ism. Nothing can he more congenial to its nature than a state of things the effect of which is to fritter away all sober inclination of the heart, to nurse a debasing love of un- worthy objects, and to substitute a variety of mock obligations and abject enjoyments for those manly duties and subdued home pleasures which, while asserting the dignity of human nature, are the real foundations of human happiness. That, in this respect, the Second Empire has been fully equal to its task, is shown by the mode of social life now prevalent in the world of the Satisfaits, a world composed of high functionaries generously paid out of the public purseof time-serving courtiers ena- bled to live in cloverof idiots proud to be something where men of talent are nothing of court butterflies grown out of grubs of women making it the business of their lives to dress more expensively than is al- lowed by the income of their husbandsof would-he men of fashion greedy of l)leasure and sick of pleasureof favored stock-job- bers dealing in State secrets, and squander- ing on orgies the money unfairly won at the Bourseof hired journalists and suddenly enriched gamhlers. By all those people, of course, the Second Empire is proclaimed le meilleur des mondes possibles, and care is taken that every one should know that it is not safe to gainsay this sweeping assertion. Moreover, there is a great deal of corrup- tion flowing from above. It is one of the saddest features of despotism that it implies both the temptation and the power of giving loose to ones caprices. It is true that this may be done so as not to offend too openly against decorum. In former times, when Tiberius resolved on spending the last years of his life in reprovable pleasures, he betook himself to a lonely place, where he could gratify his tastes unseen as well as unchecked. But all despots are not like Tiberius. Nei- ther are all of them like Louis XIV., who, while scandalizing the nation by the specta- cle of his priVate life, would not have the rules of propriety violated by anybody but himself, thus intimating that it was a special privilege of his rank to trample upon morals. The consequence was, that during his life~ time, at any rate, corruption did not become fashionable. The regent made it so, because his good-natured immorality led him, not only to tolerate, but to humor in others the excesses in which he himself took delight. Surely, I do not mean to hint that this is the case with the present ruler of France. But it is a matter of public notoriety that the court life, under the Second Empire, is far from being what it was in France under Louis Philippe, and what it is in England now. Besides, the Tuileries and Compibgne are not the only places in view ; and among so ninny princely residences there is one, at least, which might perhaps bring to ones recollection the celebrated palace where the regent and his friends kept revelling every night, under the convivial dictatorship of Canilhac. I will not dwell on the importance of the facts above stated. Such a state of things is, no doubt, worth chronicling. The man- ner in which the better inclinations of the heart are cherished or vitiated, supplies one of the surest bases for the philosophical ap- preciation of a given period. XVhenever they are changed by a gradual perversion of so- cial habits into spurious raving sentimental- ity, or into sensual, insincere, and refined gallantry, there symptoms appear of a mortal disease. For no edifice is of a lasting na- ture which rests on rotten foundations. A FREEMAN. From The Spectator. TIlE AFGHANISTAN OF TO-DAY.~ THERE are only two ways that we know of of writing travels acceptably. One, and per- haps the better, is to traverse a country with a definite object, observe everything minutely which bears upon that object, describe every- thing which unconsciously tends to elucidate or dispel the preconceived theory, and so produce at once a most accurate narrative and a complete artistic work. Mi. Senior, granting that his object is political truth, and not this or that form of truth, does this con- stantly in a very thorough and painstaking way. Mr. Laing did it even more perfectly, and his book on Norway is, perhaps, the very ~ Journal of a Mission to 4f9hnnistan in 1S~7. By B. W. Bellew. Smith, Elder, nod Go. 184 THE AFGHANISTAN OF TO-DAY. best book of travels of this kind over corn- posed. Mr. Mackays Western World has nearly the same merit, and so have one or two recent works on Australia and New Zealand. The other and more difficult plan is to record all the traveller sees, without object save to record faithfully, and conse- quently without either consciousness or bias. Most of the earlier travellers wrote in this style, and the result is an accuracy of de- scription which has kept their accounts alive for generations. Their fidelity is often mar- vellous, their observation so minute, that, to the man who is really studying, their de- scriptions are often better guides than the sketchy and self-conscious accounts of much more recent tourists. There are, for instance, hundreds of travels in Russia, but there is no account of the Russian people to com- pare in accuracy with that of Mandelslo, whose book was published some two hun- dred years ago. Mr. Bellew belongs to the latter class, and is entitled to no mean place among them. His journal reads like a re- print from Ilakluyt. He accompanied the embassy sent from Calcutta to Afghanistan in 1857 as medical officer; and kept, it would seem, a very full diary. This he has given us almost in extenso, and unlike most diaries it is charming reading. Gifted, to judge from internal evidence, with keen eyes, good spirits, imperturbable temper, and that fac- ulty of comprehending Asiatics which is in- communicable, and which in the East stands in the place of all other mental powers, he has drawn a picture of Afghan life, society, and politics such as the most accomplished literary artist can only admire at a distance. Nobody save a faithful observer, utterly care- less of the effect he was producing, could have drawn such a picture of the Afghan heir apparent, without once descending o abuse, or indeed expressing any peremptory opin- ion at all. We do not know that it is very important to understand Afghansall East- ern knowledge is habitually overratedbut those who care for such information may acquire it in full completeness, without ex- ertion and without weariness, from Mr. Bel- lows old-fashimied, but most instructive journal. There is a quaint and wholly unreasonable prejudice in England in favor of the Afghans. The public mind, always ill-informed on Asiatic affairs, and always prone to worship success, is impressed with the notion that the Afghans beat us; and an Asiatic who can defeat an Englishman is entitled to his re- spect. We occupied Afghanistan, wore mas- sacred in Afghanistan, utterly subjugated Afghanistan, and quitted Afghanistan; these~ are all the external facts, and the average Englishman, habituated to see his flag re- main wherever it has once been planted,, gives the Afghan credit for latent qualities before which that flag was compelled or in- duced to retreat. One of the very worst and most disorganized races in Asia is therefore invested with attributes, which relieve them. altogether of the contempt so commonly and so senselessly felt for all other Asiatics. There seems to be little doubt that the dominant and most numerous tribe of Af-, ghans, about three millions in number, and ruling two millions of other tribes, are do- generate Jews, not, as they claim to be, de- scendants of Saul, but refugees from Pales- tine who, after the groat depopulation by Nebuchadnezzar, fled eastward, settled in these mountains, and intermarried with the native women. No man who ever saw an Afghan doubts his affinity to the Jews; their traditions and books universally point to this originwhich is one no Oriental would in- ventand though their creed is now Mus- sulman, their superstitions, laws of inherit- ance, and punishments are all based on the ancient Hebrew code. Left to their own do-. vices, with none of the restraining influences of their own creed, and with a tendency to idol worship even Mahommedaniam cannot eradicate, they have become just what their forefathers became in Israel di~ring their backslidingsan utterly evil race, proud and poverty-stricken; full of arrogance and greed and lust, and scrupling at no act which seems to promise immediate advan- tage. Like the continental aristocracy, they are above trade, and can only fl0ht, cultivate the soil, and breed enormous herds of sheep and goats, with which some tribes wander from valley to valley like Calmuks, or other nomad hordes. Excessively jealous of their women, they are themselves steeped to the lips in the worst crimes, and though they talk of Nang-i-Pukhtun, or Afghan honor, their word is utterly unreliable. Brave, but indocile, habituated to despotism but not to obedience, they have totally failed to con- struct a State, and are only restrainerl from disintegration into minute tribes by the hope of external conquest, the excessive pressure to which they are subjected from without, or th~ ascendency occasionally acquired by some unscrupulous man of genius. Dost Ma~ hommed holds them now, and will till h~ dies ; but he is in extreme old age, and his eldest son inherits few of his greater quali~ ties. 186 JOHN BRIGHT ON AMERICA. JOHN BRIGHT ON AMERICA. comfort than if they had remained here as if, 11Gb e of a Speech at Birmingham, 18 Dec.] as one of Americas own poets has said, Tn~RE are ministers in our Cabinet as re- For her free latchstring never was drawn in solved against any treason to freedom on Against the poorest child of Adams kin. this question as I am, and there are numbers In America there are no six millions of of the English aristocracy of the very high- grown men excluded by the Constitution eat rank who hold the same opinion as I do; from political rights; there is a free Church, but we have had every effort made that a free school, a free hand, a free vote, a free money and malice could devise to stimulate career far the child of the humblest. No! in Lancashire, among the suffering popula- countrymen who work for your living, re- tion, an opinion in favor of the Slave States. member that there will be one wild shriek of They have not been able to get it, and I freedom, to startle all mankind if that Re- honor that population for their fidelity to public is overthrown. Slavery has been the their principles and to freedom, and I say the huge foul blot upon its fame; it is a hideous conduct they have pursued ought to atone in outrage against human right and divine thelminds of the people in the United States law; the pride and passion of man will not for miles of leading articles written by the permit its peaceable extinction; the slave- London pressby men who would barter owners of our colonies, if they had been every human right to serve the party with strong enough, would have revolted too. I which they are associated. How, I ask, believe there was no mode short of a mira- comes it that on the Continent of Europe cle more stupendous than any recorded in there is not a liberal newspaper nor a liberal the Holy XVrit which would, in our time or politician that durst say, or ever thought of in a century, have brought the abolition of saying, one word in favor of that portentous slavery in America but the suicide which the and momentous shape which now asks to be South has committed and the war they are received intothe family of nations? The late now raging. It is a measureless calamity; Count Cavour had no difficulty in deciding I said the Russian war was a measureless on this point. Ask Garibaldi (cheers)ask calamity; did not, many of your leaders tell Kossuth, whether slavery has nothing to do you that that was a just war to maintain the with this strife. Ask Victor Hugo, the poet integrity of Turkey,.some thousands of miles of freedom and exponent of the yearnings of away? Why, surely the integrity of your all mankind for the better timeask any own country at your own doors must be man in Europe who opens his lips or indites worth as much as the integrity of Turkey. a seutence for freedom, on which side your Is not this law the penalty which an inexor- sympathies should lie. (Hear.) Why, in able justice exacts from America, North and all parts of the world except this island, South, for the enormous guilt of cherishing famed for its freedom, you do not find one this fri0htful iniquity for the last eighty man speaking in favor of the South; and years? I do not blame any man who takes why is that done here? Ill tell you the the restoration of the Union to be hopeless; reason. Our London press is mainly in the you have the authority of the Chancellor of hands of certain ruling West-end classes, the Exchequer on that point; he is, as a It acts in favor of those classes. One of speaker, unsurpassed by any man in Eng- the most eminent statesmen in this country, land; hot, unfortunately, he made use of althou0 h not an official statesman, said to expressions in the north of England nearly me, I had not an idea how much influence three months ago, and seems ever since then the example of the Republic was having up- to have been engaged in trying to make on opinion here until I discovered the uni- people understand what he meant. (A versal congratulations on the prospect of that laugh.) He is, however, quite welcome to Republic breaking up ; but I maintain, after think the struggle hopeless for the North. I all., that the people do not err. Free States dont hold that opinion. The leaders of this are the home of the working man. In fif- revolt propose by their Constitution this sim- teen year~ 2,500,OOQ of our countrymen and plc thing: that over a territory some forty countrywomen have left us for the United times as large as England the blight and States, every one of whom, speaking gener- bondage of slavery shall be forever perpetu- ally, is in a much better position in point of ated. I cannot myself believe in such a THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. 187 fate befalling that fair land, stricken though every wish for the material success of so lib- it now be by the ravages of ~var; I cannot eral an enterprise, we must watch its results believe that civilization in its journey with with an interest of a wider and more gen.. the sun will sink into endless night to grat- eral kind, bound u.p as it is with a problem ify the ambition of the leaders of this revolt, of real and intrinsic moment in the history who seek to wade through slaughter to a of literature. That problem, which the pop- throne, and shut the gates of mercy on man- ular voice alone must ultimately resolve, re- kind. (Cheers.) I have another and far lates to the rank which the author of Wa- brighter vision before my gaze. It may be verley is entitled to hold, and the influence but a vision, but I will still cherish it. I see which he is destined to exercise in perma- one vast Confederation stretching from th~ nence among the classic writers of our lan- frozen North in one unbroken line to the guage. Is Walter Scott a great writer? In~ glowing South, and from the wild billows what proportion do his works retain, or may of the Atlantic to the calmer waters of the they be expected to retain, that magical as- Pacific main, and I see one people and one cendeney which, at their first publication, law and one language and one faith, and followed each successive wave of the living over all that wide continent the home of enchanters wand? In attractive and en- freedom and a refuge for the oppressed of lightening force, is their grade to be flnall~r every race. with those supreme and primary luminaries which sway and irradiate the intellectual From The Saturday Review, firmament, or those transient meteors which THE WAVERLEY NOVELS.~~ do but dazzle us as they flash for a second ThE WTaverley novels are at length fairly or two across the sky? Three or four oh- committed to the chances of competition with servations of a comets path enable us to the latest and cheapest literature of the day, approximate closely enough to the law of its in a form which must put the question of orbit. And after thirty years experience we their permanent popularity to the last and surely are in a position to work out a suffi- most crucial test. The copyrights of the ciently practical equation to the future path earlier portions of the series have already of the most brilliant modern star in the zo- expired, and year by year will gradually diac of literature. break down that hedge of immunity which The popularity of Scott has, from the first, kept these volumes exempt from been somewhat of a select sort, rather than the rivalry of trade, and lent them a kind of aristocratic a popularity of the populace. He never prestige in the community of fiction.~~.The wrote for the multitude, and was not of the enterprising firm which has invested 1ar~ely number of those who subsist by the sympa- in the purchase of the surviving privileges thies of the masses. Aristocratic in his tastes of the extinct house of Cadeil has resolved and feudal in his notions of society, his sphere we are glad to see, upon a policy which i,~ of thought was one to which a certain style likely to retain to it, in a manner not only of pomp and sumptuousness was indispensa- the most legitimate, but in the long run the ble. To enjoy and love him thoroughly, one most likely to prove remunerative, that mo- must be raised either by birth or by force of nopoly the legal sands of which are rapidly cultivation above the vulgar and the corn- running out. Competition is practically dis- monplace. Below the isothermal lines of tanced when, one by one, each story of the heraldic insignia and gentle culture his great- series is in succession presented to the pub- ness will hardly vegetate. Yet it has been lic in the handy and popular form of a sliil- the fashion to remark, on the other hand, ling novelin paper, typography, arid gen- how much better Scott describes beggars, eral style of getting up, assimilated to the gypsies, smugglers, clowns, and the hangers- myriad ephemera, which flaunt their gaudy on of kings and queens, even kings and backs at every railway bookstall. Phe pres- queens themselves, the very highest and the ent impression is, in fact, a cheaper re-issue very meanest of mankind, than the half-way of the stereotype edition put forth eight class to which he himself belonged. How years ago, at eighteen pence a volume. With superior, we are told, is Effie Deans to Lady ~ Wirerley. Shilling Series. Edinburah. A & Staunton, or even Jeanie Deans to Rose C. Black. 1862. Bradwardine! How much more do Mary of 188 Scotland and Elizabeth of England resemble real queens than Julia Mannering or Die Vernon represent real young ladies! Now we believe the reverse of this complaint to be at least as near the truth. The readers affinity with his author has been the source of the fallacy. It is not that these ladies and gentlemen are less natural in themselves than those princes, beggars, or rustics. But the reader, it must he remembered, is, in the former case, among his own set, whom he is, from familiar observation, competent to criti- cise. He is judging a work of art as an ex- pert, not as a critic. No jockey or trainer would be satisfied with the horses even of Phidias. To an old salt, the seamanship of the Pirate would perchance smack of the landsman; and a live gaberlunzie would stare at his double in the garb and with the diction of Edie Ochiltree. When the romancer of the artificially bred middle class draws for his patrons a serf or a crusader, a cow-feeder or a queen, he is tolerably safe from jealous judgment, and may dash in his colors with a free hand. His characters are got up for company, and must be clothed, not in the most appropri- ate, but the most picturesque habiliments. Such art is indeed that of the stage, not that of nature; but Scott could not help being dramatic even in his most naturalistic efforts. He could fascinate his own order by his skill in presenting to it his views of the world beneath itself, through its own conventional medium. Between himself and the lower misses he was fixing at the same time an artificial gulf. He would patronize them as artistic models, not take them to his bosom as of the same living and breathing kin. If we turn from the quality of Scotts gen- ius to its quantity, and try to guage or meas- ure his mental stature, we are somewhat at a loss for a standard of comparison. There is a supreme and august rank in the empire of intellect, from which Scotts greatness will forever fall short. He had no particular message to deliver to the worldno special idea or notion of truth to impart to itno new scheme or system of thought to elabor- ate. Neither was his the living, spreading, consuming fire of Shakspeare, Dante, or Goethe. There was not merely the same unconsciousness of any special mission, that unconsciousness which seems the first attri- bute of genius, with which the Stratford THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. playwright labored, just to fill the Globe the- atre. Each was doubtless equally spontane- ous, equily unencumbered by any ulterior aim. But they differed immeasurably in depth. It is in the undesigned, unfelt em- anations of the mind that the highest genius distances all lower grades. In the sparkles of light which it throws oil without an effort, without the sense of doing anything vast or notable, there is a radiance and a heat which the world recognizes, and rejoices in the glow. Scarce a page of Shakspeare can be turned at random which does not kindle or enlighten us with its latent aphoristic force. No writer, it has been felt on the contrary, has written so many volumes as Sir Walter Scott with so few sentences that can bear to be quoted. His power, as Mr. Carlyle well defined it, lay in ext enso, not in intenso. His situations are effectivehis delineations of action are graphic, and stir us as they would stir an actual spectator. They form, in truth, a series of masterly tableaux, and, with the force of a stereoscope, set before us artistic groups in all the simulated relief of reality. Their still life is admirable. There is some- what, of course, beyond the power of the mere photographerthere is much lively motion and many a brilliant shift of scene. But the soul is somehow equally wanting. His men and women seem more or less lay figures, costumed and posed for effect. They say nothing that we particularly care to hear. Scott had no gospel to deliver, and, sooth to say, never professed to have any. In this respect, at all events~ he rises in- effably above those charlatans who are for- ever prating of their mission to amend, re- buke, and elevate society, and who never treat us to their sugary confections without pounding up in them some one or other of their pet nostrums for the moral diseases of mankind. Scott would be neither the phy- sician nor the pedagogue of society. He came not to call the sickly, but the hale and joyous, and bade them enjoy life as he en- joyed it. Rejoicing in the power to amuse, and finding abundant amusement to himself in the process of so doing, he gave little heed to- what lessons he might read to pos- terity, or with what cut-and-dried theories he ought to prime his soul. To amass good stories, to work up rare and romantic mate- rial into fresh and picturesque combinations, was with him too genuine an impulse to need THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. the justifying plea of any moralistic cant. If he never rose to be a prophet, he could never sink into a Pharisee. Health and buoyancy of mind seemed in him the natu- ral reflex of his robust and hardy corporeal frame. In the heartiness and verve which he threw into his pages, lay, even more than in his purity and kindly warmth, the secret of that hold which he obtained upon his age. Anything mean, sordid, or cynical, flew off from contact with his soul, as a perfectly healthy physique is said to throw off all bodily impurities. Adhesive in his social instincts, running over with humor and hu- manity, beaming with constitutional liveli- ness, his was just the presence to which the blase and hypochondriac run, to catch the restorative virus. The effect was electrical when he thus burst upon a languid and jaded generation, cloyed with artificial food, inca- pable of faith, while shuddering at scepti- cism. Faith Scott undoubtedly possessed the faith of all massive hearty naturesfaith in himself, faith in the order of things and the lessons of history. The advent of such a man was like an invigorating bath to an age grown maudlin over Byronism and Werterism, or coddled over the nursery fire and possets of the Minerva Press. All other remedies for ennui were flung aside the mo- ment the Great Unknown began his spells, to which the mystery of their authorship gave an extra piquancy and charm. Kot- zebue and the thrilling school were annihi- lated. Ghosts were sent back to limbo. The chains clanked harmlessly in the Castle of Otranto, and Mrs. Radcliffe no more kept boys and girls tremblingly awake with hor- rors. The reader was carried hack to rough, real, hardy times, when modern nerves were unknown, when life was active, blithesome, vigorous. For old and young, the jaded and the imaginative, there was an inexhaustible store of wonderment in those scenes of mar- tial feats, jousts and tournays, border forays, royal progresses, gorgeous rituaL Who did not sigh to have had their lot cast in those free, bold, unsophisticated days; when gal- lant knights caracoled on giant horses of whirlwind speedladies of peerless beauty ambled in quaint guise through the merry greenwood, or slipped their hawks over meadow and leawhen sleek churchmen rustled in medi~val braverywhen romance was a reality, when adventure waited upon daring, and even the weird and the super- natural still bade defiance to natures pro- saic laws? Novel-reading had till then been a forbidden, though coveted pleasure. Scott, made a nation of novel-readers. He was the founder of the historical novel. By the modicum of fact which he dug up from the buried past, he was able to bribe the con~ science which sneered at fiction as a waste of time, as well as the prudery which blushed at it as sinful. And never was literary in- vention so well rewarded. As, faster and faster, poured forth the magic sheets, the profits of the manufactory rose to 16,000 a-year. Novel-making has from that date been one of the most gainful of trades, and the circulating library must revere him as its demi-god. The old saw which Fletcher of Saltoun drew from an unarmed wise person, that he cared not who made a nations laws, so he might make its ballads, has lost its point. Our nation has long left off singing ballads, if, indced, it was ever given to sing- ing them. The novel has taken the place of the ballad. It were strange, accordingly. if the man who had the making of novels for an entire generation had not some effects of his handiwork to show. Sir Walters influ- ence upon the thought and taste of our age may be traced in two important directions. His talent, as we have implied, rested upon two powerful instinctshis love of antiquity and his love of nature. From the fountain- head of his genius welled forth both the stream of medi~val revival, and that which has lately taken to itself the technical title of muscularity. The generation whose youth was nursed upon his tales and songs of chivalry grew up with eye and heart turned wistfully back towards the past. In art, pol- itics, theology, and social life, Young Eng- land dreamed of an ideal three or four hun- dred years bygone. The nineteenth century must be taught to build, to think, to believe, to worship, in forms of mediteval sanctity. The Oxford movement was only possible among minds over which the glamor of those potent fictions had passed. The Tracts for the Times were, in some sense, the logical progeny of Ivanhoe and the Monastery; and the Palace of Westminster is but the archi- tectural development of Ahbotsford. Scotts theology, it is true, cost him little thought. It came to him, among the stock in trade of 189 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. 190 his most proper craft, simply as a legacy Every spot which the novelist described be. from the past. His religious instincts pointed came forthwith classic to the civilized of all more to objective order and ceremonial than nations. It must strike every traveller from to self-analysis or abstract grounds of belief, the South how much this infusion has per- His ideas of art, even in his own province colated even to the lower strata of northern of antiquarianism, were of a very superficial society. Scarce a cottar or drover but has order, and much of the collections and heir- at his fingers ends the lore which links his looms which made Ahbotsford the pride of home with the genius of the novelist. Pro- his soul might now be voted by Wardour vincialism may not, indeed, he favorable to Street itself very sorry bric4x-brac. History world-wide homage. The taste for what is itself was ransacked by him, not for its truth, simply local or grotesque may at any mo- but for its materials of amusement, and it ment pass away among other shifts of fash- would ~be waste of time to pull to pieces his ion. A reaction may, in like manner, crc hasty and fanciful creations under the strong long set in against the prevalent Gothic light of modern historical criticism. It would mania. But herein, as we have seen, lay be not less unfair, at the same time, to with- but one element of Scotts mental ascen- hold from him the credit of a first impulse dency. There remains, as the basis of all which had yet to receive its severer form and the rest, his intense and instinctive love of stricter organization at other hands. To have helped to drive out the cold and vapid classicalism in architecture, and the sickly sentimentality in fiction, which made the era of the regency of Englands darkest period, was a service to his age not the less merito- rious because Scott had never set himself coolly and scientifically to work it out. Scarcely less striking or salutary in its effects upon the national character has heen Scotts grasp of nature and keen zest of physical enjoyment. The breezy mountain and the brae, the hardy sports of the moor and the loch, the genial humor and racy dia- lect of Highland clansmen, were painted by him with a freshness and a force entirely his own. New types of life and character were thrown upon the canvas. To the Southern readers of his day the manners and speech of the Scottish peasantry were previously all but as strange and outlandish as those of Japan or Central Africa are to ourselves. A real union of interest and feeling began to spring up between the two countries. The very fee simple of all Scotland has been raised by Scotts pen fully ten per cent. nature. Riding at these two anchors, the ark of Scotts reputation is in no danger of total or immediate shipwreck. Mediwvalism and muscularity may not be very profound ideas, hut few ~vill deny to such ideas their salutary influence la spiritualizing and bracing the mind. All that Scott had to impart of solid gain has by these two channels passed into the age. He has no more to teach us. But he can still make us feel. He will be read for no didactic purpose, hut for what is far more the proper end of fictionthe innocent and healthy play of the emotions. Men of mature years ~vill miss, as they peruse once more the tales which fascinated their youth, the vivid and exquisite enjoyment of that first acquaintance. And the young will won- der at the rapt, almost the religious, belief with which their sires still speak of the Wa- verley novels as the type of all that is per- fect in fiction. It is the sign of what the age has gained in mental depth and breadth. But enthusiasm will not he followed in this case by contempt. We have already had writers of deeper insight and higher aim, but none of warmer sympathy or more genuine human heart. And by virtue of these quali- ties Scott still remains the favorite novelist of his country. Wnv is the Welsh language like the Mael- 1 out, as Sir John Ross said when be couldnt strom lBecause it is not easily sounded. find his way to the North Pole. IM a rising young man, and a capital pros- MEssAGES carefully delivered, as the ear- pect before me as Sinbad the sailor said when trumpet said to the old maid. he was lifted into the air by the eagle. PLEASE TO REMEMBER THE NAME AND I niiusn for you, as the rouge-pot said to ADDEEss. A disappointed playwright has had the malice to write over the door of the the old dowager. DRAMATIC AUTHORS SOCIETY; iCi on paris I SHALL never be ablo to make this passage Francais. FROST IN THE HOLiDAYS. 191 FROST IN THE HOLIDAYS. The one low voice goes wandering on THE time of frost is the time for me! Throubh a mystic world, ~vhither all are gone; The shadows (lance; little Caroline When the gay blood spins through the heart Has stolen her fin,~ers up into mine. with glee, But the niht outside is very chill, When the voice leaps out with a chiming sound, And the frost hums loud at the window-sill. And the footstep rings on the musical ground; w~. ALLINGIIAM. When the earth is gray and the air is bright, _________ And every breath a new delight I While Yesterday sank, full soon, to rest, What a glorious sky !through the level west, Pink clouds in a delicate greenish haze, Which deepened up into purple grays, With stars aloft as the li,,ht decreased, Till the great moon rose in the rich blue east. And Morning !each pane a garden of frost, Of delicate flowering, as quickly lost; For the stalks are fed by the moons cold beams, And the leaves are woven, like woof of dreams, By Nights keen breath, and a glance of the Sun, Like dreams, will scatter them every one. Hurrah! the lake is a league of glass! Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass. Off we shoot, and poise and wheel, And swiftly turn upon scoring heel And our flying sandals chirp and sing Like a flock of swallows gay on the wing. Happy skaters! jubilant flight! Easily leaning to left and right, Curving, coasting an islet of sward, Balancing sharp on the glassy cord With single foot,ah, wretch unshriven! A new rtar dawns in the fishes heaven. Away from the crowd with the wind we drift, No vessels motion so smoothly swift; Fainter and fainter the tumult grows, And the gradual stillness and wide repose Touch with a hue moPe soft and grave The lapse of joys declining wave. Pure is the ice; a glance may sound Deep through an awful dim profound Of water-dungeons where snake-weeds hide, Over which, as self-upborne, we glide, Like wizards on dark adventure bent, Masters of every element. Homeward! How the shimmering snow Kisses our hot cheeks as we go Wavering down the feeble wind, Like a manifold thought to a poets mind, Till the earth and trees and icy lakes, Are slowly clothed with the countless flakes. But the village streetthe stir and noise! Where long black slides run mad with boys Where the pieis kept hot, in sequence due, Aristocrat now the hobnail shoe; And the quaint white bullets fly here and there, With laugh and sl~out in the ~vintry air. In the clasp of Home, by the ruddy fire, Ranged in a ring to our hearts desire, Who is to tell some wondrous tale, Almost to turn the warm cheeks pale, Set dim on hands, make grave eyes stare, Draw slowly nearer each stool and chair I A SONNET. WRITTEN IN A COPY OF DR. JOIINSONS PRAYERS A~D luEPITATIONS. O STRANGE great soul! That rock the prophet smote, Whence gushed their life, to Israels heart of pride Seemed naught I ween but barren Horebs side; For little would the thirsty worldlings note Of those diviner springs ~vhich far remote From their chance gaze which ever idly spied What each rash lust desired, God willed to hide, Till holy Moses called the waters out So in our world where outward things have sway The proud high front which noblest natures own Looks monstrous, and so shallow have we grown, That hearts like thine whose deeper fountains play Beyond the reach of every wanton ray, Though brimmed with love, unfathotned, seem but stone. ALSAGER HAY HILL. National Magazine. THE INTERESTS OF FRANCE. AIR A Landlady in France. THE interests of France wont let Italy obtain The Capital she needs to crown her union, 0 Her troops at Rome the emperor d dares must still remain) To preserve the Roman Catholic commun- ion, 0! So when this pious emperorthe peoples own Elect The Roinans ask for leave to choose their Ruler, 0 He says that conscience forces him their prayer to reject, An assertion than which nothing can be cooler, 0! Garibaldis march on Rome, though checked was his advance, Supplies him with a fresh excuse for staying, 0! On the ground that, to a menace, right or wrong, the pride of France, Can on no account attention dream of pay- ing, 0! So the interests of France, and her honor, under foot, Bid her tread the rights of every weaker na- tion, 01 And therefore, for the present, she determines not to put Any limit to the Roman occupation, 0! Punch, THE VOiCE OF HUMANITY. THE VOICE OF HUMANITY.~ Now has Bramwell done his worst, And the La~v has slaked its thirst! Come, thou, Goddess fair and free, By Jebb vcleped Humanity! Come and with thy sweet relief Sooth each interesting thief; Deaf to all the coward bluster Raised by simple knuckle-duster. Tis thy office to make snug Sad aarotter in the jug. If his ways must be confined, To his errors still be kind. Now let mercy sho~v her vigor, Kindness is the soul of rigor; Make at least the dungeon rosy- Curtained, carpeted, and cosy. Let the rogues our necks who throttle Never want their generous bottle; While ~xe ca~e them for our quiet, Pile their boards with dainty diet; Penitence from plenty springs, And good thoughts come of good things. Let them, after onkum-picking Have their duckling or their chicken; Row justly after breakisg stones Succeeds a grill of (levilled bones! If living ills their fault, then, sure, Good hivin~ is th appropriate cure; Youve only to reverse the sin, To find the needful discipline. Take for the model of a cell That where good Tuck did whilom dwell, With flask of Rhtnish, and a haunch Of venison for his pious paunch. Tobacco ~vas not in those days, But lets improve on ancietit ways, And join the influence of a mild Cigar to tame the passions wild; The very sutoke that mounts the sky Will lead the captives thoughts ou high, And every sober, calming l)uff By grace divine reform a Rough. In penitentiaries kept close Convicts are apt to grow morote; Send Sykes or Sheppard to the hulks, He grows ill-tempered, mopes and sulks; But Itlace him amort~st fragrant flowers, That pensive brow no longer lowers; The heart in prison-yard that hardens Will melt like wax in sunny gardens. Blest work ! with Natures sweets and balms To change poor wolves to harmless lambs! Aid it, ye tender-hearted Delias! Send Sykes a bouquet of camelias, And sure some pitying Caroline Will Sheppards name with roses twine, And with them, if her heart be true, Send him a cigarette or two. Thus, with a butt of stout from Jebb, Lest strength should fail, or mirth should ebb, And a few Bibles clasped with gold (Such as at Bagsters shop are sold), The dungeon might be made a nice Retreat for persecuted vice, Till Edens seat be foundand then Transporting should begin again. Examiner. M. W. S. WHEN I GET THE TIN. A LYRIC OF TON. I MEAN to go to Ascot Upon the Gold-cup day; Ill sport a steed of gallant breed, A chestnut or bright bay; Unless I join Sir Henrys set (He said hed take me itt), And to the. stand drive four in hand, Mum !whcn I get the tin! Ill ogle all the ladies, And ntany a smiling eye, From the giand stand, ~vill li~ht loves brand, And look me sight for si~ h! Ill bet n~ainst the favorite (TIte seconds sure to ~vin) Witlt smiles and nods Ill take the odds, Humph when I get the tin! Some club of notoriety Must have me for a member; Whete I may dine, atid stp my wtne, In tlte dog-days, or November; Address my cardhave letters left When Town begins to thin Anti I resort to shoot and sport, Humpla !~vlten I get tlte tin An opera-box Ill occupy, Where eyes and diamonds gleaming On a contrt stight, make earth seem brigl~ As thte heaven of poets dreamittg! Ill visit soirJe, ball, and rout, My day ~vith ttight begin ; Outshine them all at masqtte and ball, Thatswhen I get the tin To some fair creature Ill propose (Loves flamewlty sltould I smother fl Winht rosy blush, my fears shell brush, And sigh, Go ask my mother! Objections ~vilh at first be raised, She pines, grows pale and tltin, Papa relentstuam tua consents, And soI get tlte tin! And, when installed in wealth and ease, Ill live on nay estate; No duns sItall come, like sound of drum, To tltunder at my gate; My gray goose-quill Ill throw aside Tltat now my way must win, For alt! Ive s~vore to write no more, When once I get the tin! Punch, 192

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The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 974 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. January 31, 1863 0076 974
The Living age ... / Volume 76, Issue 974 193-240

THE LIVING AGE. No. 974. 31 January, 1863. CONTENTS 1. Little Flaggsthe Almshouse Foundling, 2. Mr. Borrows Wild Wales, 3. Modern Political Memoirs, 4. Russells Diary North and South, 5. The Times understood it two Years ago, 6. The Caledonian Mercurys Opinion, Dublin University Magazine, Spectator, Quarterly Review, Spectator, North American, Caledonian Mercury, POBTRY.Charles the Fifths Song in his Coffin, 194. Sudden Light, 194. Snoin~ ARTICLEs.Walled Lakes, 213. Authors and Circulating Libraries, 235. PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL, SON, & CO., BOSTON. For Six Dollars a year, in advance, remitted directly to the PulAiskers, the Lsvtie Acs will be punctually for- warded free of postage. Complet~ sets of the First Series, in thirty-six volumes, and of the Second Series, in twenty volumes, hand- somely hound, packed in neat boxes, and delivered in all the principal cities, free of expense of freight, are for sale at two dollars a volume. AxY VOLUME may he had separately, at two dollars. hound, or a dollar and a half in numbers. Axv NUMBER may be had for 13 cents; and it is well worth while for subscribers or purchasers to complete any broken volumes they may have, and thus greatly enhance their value. PAtti. 195 214 217 236 238 240 194 CHAIlLES THE FIFTHS SONG IN HIS COFFIN.~ FROM THE DAEISE OF Ii. S. IEGEMANN. BY MRS. BUSEBY. THE passing-bell, ding dong! ding dong! Hark! calls me to the dead. Let me, midst prayers and holy song, Now sleep that sleep, so deep, so long, Upon this soft, smooth bed! The passing-bell, dine dong! ding dong! Hark! calls me to the dead. A king I was but latea strong, A mi~hty emi)ires head The world too small with its countless throng, And notv a coffin is too long! The passin~-bell, dine dong! ding dong! Hark! calls me to the dead. Hush! hush! Ah! softer, softer yet; Disturb my dreams no more. Hush! let me sleep in peace, and let Me now all earthly things forget, And the crown I lately wore. Hush ! hush ! Als ! softer, softer yet; Disturb my dreams no more. Let now my name aside be set, And flatterys words be oer. Behold! a corpse I lie, though yet Th& gates of heaven I have not met. Hush! hush! Ab! softer, softer yet; Disturb my dreams no more. Hasten, hasten, on~vards bear Me now to calm repose. Haste, let my weary bones rest there, Within that vaulted chamber, where You lamp sepulchral glows. Hasten, hasten, on~vards bear Me now to caltn repose. Take back the cro~vn twas mine to wear, So laden with all human woes That cro~vn I may no lon~cr bear Tis bloody! AIm! then cleanse it fair; And hasten, hasten, onwards bear Me now to calm repose. * ~~ is well known that Charles V., one of the greatest moaarchs of Europe. tired of ambition, and of the over- whelming cares of his extensive government, retired, towards the close of his life, to the monastery of St. Justus, wherehe not only abjured all the luxuries of his elevated station, but subjected himself to many severe penances. To display his zeal and merit the favor of heaven, says Robertson, in his Life of Charles, he fixed on an act as wid and uncommon as any that super- stition ever suggested to a weak and disordered fancy. lIe resolved to celebrate his own obsequies before his death. lie ordered his tomb to he erected in the chapel of the monastery. Ills domestics marched thither in fu- neral procession, with black tapers in their hands. I-to himself followed in his shroud. He teas laid In his coffin with much solensoity. The service for the dead was chanted, and Charles joined in the prayers that were of- fered up for the rest of his soul, mingling his tears with those which his attendants shed, as if they had been cel- ebrating a real funeral. The ceremony closed with sprinkling holy water on the coffin in the usual form, and alt the assistants retiring, the doors of the chapel were shut Then Charles rose out of the coffin, and with- drew to his apartment, full of those awful sentiments which such a singular solemnity was calculated to in- spire. CHARLES THE FIFTH~S SONG IN HIS COFFIN. Hush ! hush ! Ab ! grant me rest, Grant me rest within die grave. Never was my spirit blest, Never to my bosom rest The gnawing worm yet gave. Hush ! hush ! Alt ! grant me rest, Grant me rest within the grave. The worm alone is the constant guest Of the kind as of the slave. Ay, ever sloes the worm infest And prey upon the human breast. Hush ! hush ! Alt ! grant me rest, Grant me rest within the grave. Hither, hither, come, ye mighty, To this fir-wood chest; hither come, and ye shall see Him whom, among the great like ye, The world called greatest, best. Hither, hither, come, ye mighty, To this flr-tvood chest. lie who wielded sceptres three, lie who could so easy wrest Kingdoms from the mightiest, he Now fightsalas ! that it should be ! Now fights with loathsome reptiles, see! Within this itarrow eltest. The passing-hell, ding dong! ding doagh Let peace be with tlte dead. Let him, midst prayers and holy song, Now sleep that sleep, so deep, so long, Upon tlsis soft, smooth bed. The passin~-belh, ding dong! ding dong I Let peace be with the dead. A king he was but latea strong, A mighty empires head; The world too small with its countless throng, And now a coffin is too long. The passin~hell, din~ don ~! ding dong l Let peace be with tlte dead! New Moat/dy Magazine. SUDDEN LIGflT~ I HAVE been here before, Though when or how I cannot tell; I know the paths beyond the door, The sweet fresh smell, The sighing sound, the lights around the shore. You have been mine before, flow long ago I do not know; But just when, at that swallows soar, Your neck turned so, Some veil did fall, I knew it all of yore. Before may be again: Ohs! pibss my eyes into your neck. Shall we not be forever lain Thus for Loves sake, And sleep, and wake, yet never break the chain. D. G. ROSSETTI. From The Dublin University Magazine. LITTLE FLAGOS THE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. PART I. CIIAPTEIL L THE HEROI2E IS IXTRODUCED. ONE gentle summer evening, hushed and starry, with a faint breeze whispering abroad, like the breathing of a quiet sleeper, an in- fant lay slumbering on the bare flags of an almshouse hall. Peacefully it slept all through the night, with the stars shining down on it through the grated windows that pierced the walls. heavily drugged with laudanum as it had been, the child was as motionless and noiseless as if dead. The moon rose and set, the stars paled in the light of the coming day; the sparrows twit- tered and fluttered on the house-top, and still it awoke not. Bright floods of golden light shone down as the sun burst out in purple glorythe loud bell of the house proclaimed that all should be up and stirring who were ablethe heavy foot of the porter sounded loudly on the hall flagsyet softly as ever came the faint breath of the slum- bering infantno startno cry, but an even sleep, that apparently defied all waking. Joe Bennett, the porter, who thus early proceeded on his round of duty, was a some- what taciturn individual, never having com- pletely recovered the effects of a fit of de- rangement which seized him on the sudden death of his wife, about six years since, and he was now filling a situation in the Tilby almshouse which did not require particular brightness of intellect. His business it was to lock and bar the doors every night, and to unlock and unbar them every morning. He was scrupulous in the performance of his duties; yet not devoid of a tendency to grumble, if required to unlock or unbar at unwonted hours. He had been a schol- ar, and was still much addicted to arithme- tic and making up accounts. He had a large appetite; and was more animated on the subject of a good dinner than upon any other. He thought of no world beyond the almshouse, and it was well. On discovering the sleeping child in the hall, he uttered no exclamation, but a frown gathered over his brow as he stooped to lift it. Still motion- less, the infant was borne by him to Mrs. Wyane, the matron of the almshouse, who had just made her appearance in the general yard, where the paupers were beginning to creep about, and shake off the stupor of the past night. Mrs. Wynne was a wife and mother; but that did not make her regard babies generally with an eye of leniency. The novelty of them had all worn off; she only looked upon them in the abstract now, as so many shrieking, senseless, troublesome little creatureshappier for themselves and every one else if they were dead than living. Of course, her own children were not in- cluded in this category; it was only the in- fants of other people whom she considered altogether de trop. She was a smart little woman, of sallow color, with a sharp voice, a piercing black eye, and strongly marked features, and, according to her own account, a great sufferer from toothache, which neces~ sitated a frequent application to the gums of gin and other warm cordials; so that sometimes even early in the morning she carried about her a surprising odor of spir- ituous liquors. Once or twice of late she had met with unhappy accidents, in falling down-stairs and over chairs in the parlor, which she attributed to vertigo; but Mr. Wynne did not choose to call in the aid of any medical adviser. The good woman complained bitterly of the troublesome qual- ities of the household under her charge: its members were dirty, lazy, thankless crea- turesthey made her sickthey gave her toothache, and consequent vertigo; they failed to be happy and sweet-tempered, though graciously permitted to wander round a large paved yard, surrounded by walls of extraordinary height and thickness, and allowed to indulge in wholesome por- ridge day after day, and evening after even- ing, for breakfast and supper. But those low class of people never have any grati- tude, were words continually on the ma- trons tongue. I dont know what pau- pers were made for, if it isnt to torment other folk. This asylum for the poor at Tilby was a private institution, not under the rule of government, nor connected in any way with the parish workhouses; it was founded many years back by an ancient fam- ily in the county; and though many abuses LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. had crept in, as regarded the carrying out of certain rules, since the first years of its foundation, it was still, in some points, supe- rior to the general run of almshouses. It was a large establishment, being a house of industry for such as were able to work, be- sides being an asylum for cripples, idiots, and the very aged, who were past all labor. Its laws were regulated by a few of the lead- ing gentlemen of the neighborhood, who as- sembled on a certain day of each month to listen to complaints, to admit or discharge inmates, and to hear what David Wynne, the master, had to say upon any subject. These board-days were always momentous to every one connected with the establishment. Wynne assumed greater importance than ever upon these occasions; he was cleaner, better dressed, more tyrannical, in going his rounds over the wards and yards; yet suave, withal, in the presence of the gentlemen, of the Board. How many a wretched pauper entertained hopes of seeing some of these authorities, who were superior to the master, on~ some coming board-day, and telling his or her little tale of wrongs or sorrows, apart from the masters earay, or mayhap, before his very face. Oh, vain thought! How could they dare to come boldly forth, dressed in their gray garments, marked with the paupers badge, and utter complaints to those shiningly dressed gentlemen, booted and spurred, so grand and dainty, who now and then came out with Jacob Wynne to see the inmates walking in their yards, or to watch the looms and spinning-machines at work in the industrial apartments? Ah, no, they must, one and all, touch their caps, or courtesy humbly before these great folk, and answer, that they were all satisfied to the utmostthey had nothing more to wish for than what they received; while, all the time, more than one could have shaken their clenched hands in Wynnes face, and ut- tered dreadful things, had they dared. There was much of envying, strife, malice, among these paupers. Neither superiors nor inferiors were blameless. Almost any one of the inmates elevated to Wynnes p0- sition would have grown as proud and over- bearing as himselfand then, how they re- garded each other with jealousy! If the master gave a piece of tobacco to old Tim Phipps, or a pair of woollen socks, to ward off rheumatism in his limbs, how darkly old Paul Watts looked upon the gifts; or if I Mrs. Wynne sent a bowl of tea from her own breakfast-table to Suky Sparrow, did not a host of other old women regard Suky with envy and anger? Neither prosperity nor privation had a softening influence in this establishment, more than in any other, upon the characters of those connected with it. Master and servant were alike prone to evilthe children of wrath. Joe Bennett, the porter, never was afraid of anybody now; he used to be nervous and easily intimidated before his derangement, but never since it. Scoldings, praises, threats, made little im- pression on him of late years. His feelings had become blunted; therefore,. he marched straight up to Mrs. XVynne, with his unwel- come burden, quite coolly. What! a foundling! was the matrons angry exclamation on beholding the infant. You stupid creature, have you allowed yourself to be outwitted in this way?~ It came last night, said Joe, carelessly; it wasnt no fault of mine. Fault of yours, indeed! It flew through the keyhole, or maybe down the chimney! said Mrs. Wyane, ironically. I dont say thathands must have left it in the halltwas there I got it. A nice piece of business, indeed; and Mr. Lipwell complaining already of the num- ber of useless paupers in the house; and no sign of anybody going outnothing but inmates coming in. I hope it may soon be removed from this world of trouble, like the three last foundlings that came. It would be a mercy if it was. Let me see what its like. And the matron relieved Joe of his burden. Ay, indeed, she continued, in a lower tone, as she looked upon the placid face of the little sleeper, a mercy, surely and yet its a pretty baby toough! its enough to disgust onethe wickedness of the world! People abandoning their chil- dren in this unnatural way, and forcing them on other folks care! But Joe had walked away by this time to unbar more doors, and Mrs. Wynne stood alone with the child in her arms. Its about six or eight months old, she soliloquized, measuring the tiny form with a practised eye; and hasnt been ill-fed either. And she grasped the soft arms, and touched the round cheeks, trying to per- suade herself that she must hate the baby, 196 LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOU SE FOUNDLING. while her heart was melting towards it all the while. But this was weak. She must combat the desire to he merciful and tender. She must not permit herself to succumb to any humane feeling about an infant thrust upon the almshouse in such an underhand, unprincipled manner. One of the founda- tion rules of this asylum for the poor at Tilby was, that no child, under the age of seven years, left inside its walls, and aban- doned there, was to he turned out by the authorities, unless its parents were discov- ered; and although this enactment was strictly adhered to, yet care was taken that such a thing should occur as seldom us pos- sible. The original design of the benevo- lent individual who founded the establish- ment was, no doubt, to benefit the suffering and unfortunate poor to the best of his abil- ity; and by this means to prevent infanti- cide as far as lay in his power. But as years passed by, and careless people took the man- agement of affairs, economy as regarded the household expenditure seemed the principal considerations attended to. The strictest watch was ordered to be kept to prevent the possibility of access to forsaken children; and if one, by chance, gained admittance, great wrath was kindled among the authori- ties. Very few had of late years been in- truded on the asylum thanks to the por- ters undeviating care ; and as those few had died before attaining the age of three years, there was not at present foundling undcr the roof, except the poor little in- truder just arrived. This child was consigned by Mrs. Wynne to the care of old Suky Sparrow, an individual who in former years had earned her living as nurse and childrens attendant, but was now superannuated, though considered well enough able to attend to a pauper infant; and having thus relieved her- self ofit, the matron xvent off to communi- cate the fact of its arrival to her husband. CHAPTER II. DAVID ~Y~NE. DAVID WYNNE was about forty-six years of age, five feet ten inches in height, of stout frame and florid complexion; his features might have been considered handsome, and he had altogether an air of dignity and im- portance. He had formerly been head but- ler in the establishment of Mr. Lipwell, of Larch Grove, and through the interest of 197 that gentleman had obtained his present sit- uation as master of the Tilby House of In- dustry, by which he received an income of fifty pounds a year, with coals and candles gratis, and sundry other perquisites. He had, at this time, three little daughters~ whom both he and his wife were determined should receive the education of ladies. In short, nothing could exceed his pomp and pride, except, perhaps, the violence of his tem- perespecially when he drank hard, which he did pretty often. He was a clever man in his way; could write long and fluent letters, con- taining few words of bad spelling; used ro- mantic expressions with his pen, but rarely with his lips, being rather coarse of speech, an& somewhat of a I)lasphem~r. lie had al- ways been regarded as honest in money mat- ters; never having been known to appropriate unlawfully gold or silver intrusted to his care, or done anything that could ruin his charac- ter in the eyes of the world; but he had his own secrets, as well as the secrets of others, buried deep very deep in his heart. He had been guilty of acts, which, even if openly known, might perhaps have been regarded leniently by the world at large, but which must, nevertheless, look dark enough on the day when the secrets of all souls will be ques- tioned before the Eternal Throne. His great influence at Larch Grove gave him much importance in the eyes of the Tilby people~ Mr. Lipwell being the descendant of the original founder of the almshouse, was one of the chief committee-men who managed its affairs on the monthly board-days; and WTynne had rarely reason to fear any strict- ures made by this gentleman on his conduct as master of the asylum, owing to the fact, perhaps, that David had upon more than one occasion made himself particularly useful to his patron, even since he, quitted the service at Larch Grovenot to speak of sundry lit- tle private transactions which he cleverly effected while filling the office of butler in his employment. Some unpleasant occur- rences had lately taken place at Larch Grove, with regard to a governess who was dis- missed the house somewhat suddenly, in dis- grace, people said; Mr. Lipwells only son being in a certain degree mixed up with the affair, and Wynne was concerned in it also. But not much was known about the matter at Tilby, as it was hushed up considerably; and Larch Grove being seven miles from the 198 good little country town, where the Lipwells were too grand to visit anybody, and only appeared now and then driving through its narrow streets, either in a shining barouche and pair, or still more awe-inspiring coach- and-four, the doings at the Grove were nearly out of reach of general gossip. Young Lipwell, however, was pretty well known at Tilby as a dissipated character, and he was occasionally ohserved standing in the doorway of the principal hotel there, smok- ing cigars, or drinking hrandy in the interior with men of inferior rank. It used to grieve David Wynne very much, he said, to see Mr. Oliver thus lowering himself; he, ~vho would one day he the head of the family, the pos- sessor of all the fine estate of Larch Grove; for David had a great respect for pedigree and hcreditary grandeur, especially in con- nection with the Lipwell family. Never would he forget the plea~ant days he spent at Larch Grove; first, as pantry-boy, at the age of fifteen, under the rule of a fine old but- ler, with silver hair, who taught him how to clean plate and drink the hottoms of the wine-hottles, and partake of the remnants of the daily dessert after the family dinner. That was a fine old man that taught him many useful things; and when he died, Da- vid stepped into his shoes, and won the favor of his master, the father of the present pro- prietor of Larch Grove; who, fine and wor- thy as the present proprietor might he con- sidered, was still a more excellent and generous man than his son, in the same way that Mr. Oliver, was inferior to his father. There was evidently a tendency to deg~ner- ate in the Larch Grove family; and proba- bly, the ancestors who first settled at the Grove, were little short of perfection. An oath escaped Wynne when his wife informed him, that q foundling had heen dis- ~vered in the outer hall that morning. How did that h~ ppen? he demanded fiercely, apparently considering that Mrs. Wynne was responsible for the misfortune, as she was the first to bring him the unwel- come intelligence. Goodness knows. We must make in- quiries. Joe says he wasnt five minutes from the door at any time of the evening till ten oclock. Do you remember the strange woman that came with a large has- ket, to ask if there was a person called Dobbs in the house? LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. Psha! That woman was selling onions; she knew nothing of the child, returned Wynne, sharply. I dont say she did, hut people must guess at something. I hate those aiarket~ days, they always bring such strollers about the house. We cant help that; we must only look sharp and vigilant that were not imposed upon. Ill give Joe a sound rating, I know, with his figuring and nonsense.~~ There wouldnt be the least use in scold- ing poor Joe, said Mrs. Wynne, shaking her head; hes past taking blame to heart; all we can do now is to make the best of the business, and try to find out who abandoned the infant. What will Mr. Lipwell say, when he knows weve been so careless? Ah! XVhat is it to him, or to you either, for that matter? Its only women that knows the torment of children; and thus the matron cut the matter short, by growing smart and irritated herself, when she ob- served a tendency to become unreasonable on the part of her spouse. It had always been Mrs. Wynnes determination since she married, never to be put down by her husband; and perhaps she was the only per- son in his own grade of life whom David was at all afraid of, or who could call him to or- der when he was growing violent or restive. It would have been, perhaps, more dutiful, according to some ideas on the subject, had she meekly allowed him to burst out into furies and endanger her life, or at least her health, by his ill-temper and passion. But upon this we will not comment; she took her own method of keeping him reasonable, and we will not quarrel with it. It was vain to endeavor to discover who the person or persons were who abandoned the miserable child at the almshouse.~ Va- rious suggestions and surmises were offered by different people respecting it An ill- faced man, with a dark bundle under his arm, had been known to call on the previous even- ing at the asylum, and he had asked to see the master on particular business, but had not waited till Mr. Wynne appeared to him. A woman with a ragged cloak and shaggy hair, had been observed often during the previous day, wandering up and down in front of the almshouse, ~vith the air of one demented. Two suspicious-looking girls 199 LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. were remembered to have brought a pack of goods, as pedlers, to the house in the after- noon, and to have given Joe Bennett some impertinence for wishing to send them away. And, lastly, a couple of itinerant ballad-sing- era had insisted upon singing, ngninst all threats of sending for the constable, a van- ~ty of songs before the door, greatly to the disgust of the unhappy porter. Whether any of these individuals was the culprit guilty of leaving the child in the workhouse hall, could not, of course, be determined upon. David XYynne rejected all proffered sugges- tions on the subject with extreme contempt, merely observing that if he had the mother of the infant in his power, he would soon let her know his opinion of her crime. 0 poor mother, resting in your strange grave, where grass-blade or daisy-blossom could never rear themselves to the summer sky above youwere you not beyond the reach of human wrathwaiting for the sound of the last trump, to summon the innocent and the guilty to judgment the murdered and the murderer? CHAPTER III. THE FOUNDLING RECEIVES HER NAME. SUKY SPARROW, like most of the alms- house inmates, was a silent, uncommunica- tive woman, bordering on sixty years, tall, gaunt, and upright, with a tendency to im- agine herself afflicted with every ailment that was mentioned in her presence, ahd a head always splitting, to use her o~vn phrase. She was, therefore, fond of strong tea, which she stewed occasionally either in a saucepan or teapot over a slow fire, thus producing a very black, bitter beverage of poisonous ft - vor. Also, like most of the almshouse in- mate~, she was greatly addicted to grum- bling, and thinking herself worse treated than anybody else. When the baby intruder was committed to her care, she felt at first very angry, feel- ing that she had no more right to look after it than Jenny Tompkins or any other woman in the asylum; but she cooled down about it quickly enough; and an attentive observer, had there existcd any such individual, might have become aware that her spirits seemed better, her grumbling fits less frequent, and her head not so subject to split, as it was previous to her getting some employment of/ an active kind. The child was what CQflflOiS seurs in the matter would have called a fine one; its clothes though scanty, were not of coarse texture, rather the reverse, the lace round its cap being found to be real, by one or two female inmates, judges of such mat- ters,, though it was worn and soiled; and the tiny red shoe with which one foot was encased was of a fine make, though likewise bearing traces of neglect. These facts, how- ever, proved nothing remarkable. Mrs. Wynne merely looked upon them as showing that the infant might have belonged to a mother who stole or begged its articles of clothing. All unconscious of its miserable fate, the foundling throve well, and Suky Sparrow gre~v fonder of it every day. It was a remarkably quiet child, rarely crying or screaming, and often smiling in such a pretty way that everybody grew to tolerate it by degrees, though at first Suky ~et with many rebuffs in consequence of it, ~specially from the cook and kitehen-maids,~ when she appeared at irregular hours to claim a por~ tion of the great kitchen fire for the tiny saucepan allotted to the infants use. How often did the old woman hear wishes ex- pressed that she and the child were both at Jericho! But she never allowed herself to be exasperated by taunts or abuse. Up and down the great yard she walked, day after day, bearing her poor little burden; her coarse-checked apron thrown over its head to shade it from the burning rays of the sun, thinking, perhaps, as she went thus to and fro, of the many men and women now out upon the world, battling on the great field of life, whom she had thus borne in her arms, twenty, thirty, ay, forty years ago. And maybe theres many a curious thing to happen this little one, she thought; who knows? Only as its a girl theres not much chance of any great rise for it, except in the way of a marriage; for the men take care that women shant get much wages for any- thing they do. Theyre helplessand so let them stay helplessa pretty girl may chance to better herself, if shell choose to marry for it; but God help the ugly ones, cause the men dont like them! Suky had a great many strange notions on different subjects. Like most of her class,, she had seen a great deal of life in different spheres; and she could tell many a curious tale of fact, which would make your hair stand on end. If you could have only cau~h~ LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. hold of her, as she sat over her stewed tea, how you would have been astonished at her narratives! iDve see that child? she said to the cook, Mrs. Blackly, one day. Well, she is the oddest creature, in some ways, ever I beheld-.--she cant a-bear the ~ight of the big knife that you have for cutting up the meat. I tried her several times, and she screeches mad at it. Lawks, now, is that true? Come here, baby, look at this pretty toy, and the cook showed up the large knife in question; and, truly enough, the child uttered a terrified cry, clinging to Suky with a grasp of fright. There, now; didnt I tell you? said Suky, shaking her head. Maybe shed cry at anything, observed Mrs. Blackly, now holding up a teacup for the young ladys inspection; but here the child stretched forth her hand, smilingly, with an evident inclination to receive the teacup. Several other articles were then of- fered to her, and she appeared to like them all highly; particularly an empty canister, very polished and bright. After some time, the large knife was again brought before her notice, and with the same result as before a violent shrieking ensued, and a hiding of her face on Sukys shoulder. Well, its odd,said Mrs. Blackly. Ay, returned Suky; but depend upon it theres a reason for it; its one of them odd things in the world that people can never come to the bottom of, let them be ever so knowledgable. Do you think she ever cut herself with such a knife as that? asked Mrs. Blackly, musingly. Oh, God knows; its one of them things I wouldnt like to think too much about. There, put the knife out of sight. So the obnoxious weapon was placed in a less con- spicuous spot, and the child regained her composure, playing with her canister, to which was added a tin pepper-box, with evi- dent satisfaction. When the next board-day came round-.-- subsequent to the foundlings arrival at the almshouse, David Wynne was rather con- cernedfearing Mr. Lipwells displeasure at what might appear carelessness on the part of his subordinates, in permitting such a thing to have occurred; but things passed off better than might have been expected. At twelve oclock the Board metonly three members were present. Mr. Lipwell, Sir Thomas Combely, and Mr. Goldie of Great Park. They had chiefly come in to Tilby that day to arrange about the coming assize ball, and their thoughts were intent upon other affairs than those of the almshouse. None of them were young men, and only one was unmarriedbut a county ball is a serious matter to fashionable county gen- tlemen of any age under that of actual de- crepitude; and they ~vere all pre-occupied with the coming gayety, and with thoughts of how the town-hall should best be lighted up for the occasionwhat sort of decorations, etc., should be employed, when they assem- bled at the house of Industry. How do you do, Wynne? said Mr. Lip- well, courteously, as he met David in the board-rooma very small apartment, fur- nished simply with half a dozen hair-cloth chairs, a large desk. and an old-fashioned bookcase. He was a gentlemanly looking person, about fifty-six, with hair only becom- ing iron-graynot actually handsome, but sufficiently good-looking to excuse the atten- tion to his dress which he displayed upon all occasions. Whose hoots were always so well-fittingwhose coat so elegantly cut, as those of John Lipwell, of Larch Grove? He was at this time the husband of a second wifea beautiful young woman of eight-apd- twenty; who had brought him two little daughters, now respectively aged five and six yearshis son Oliver, at present aged twenty- seven, having been the only offspring of his first marriage. Very well, thank you, sir, said Wynne, in answer to his patrons salutation; and then he acknowledged the more distant greetings of Sir Thomas Combely and Mr. Goldie. Anything particular to-day? All going on right? resumed Mr. Lipwell. Pretty fair, sir. Old Phipps has taken the fits againnearly off, sir; and Bob Per- kins had to be removed to the strong cell, he became so outrageous. Jane Huggins and Mary Barton have applied to go out for the harvest worka-hem. Thats all, I suppose? Well, no, sir, not exactly all. Weve another little matter on hands. That poor 200 LITTLE FLAGGSTIIE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. 201 stupid fellow, Joe Bennett, neglected his CHAPTER IV. watch about a fortnight ago; and sowhea THE GOVEREESS AT LARCH GROVE. a foundling was left in the hallI was very OLIVER LIPWELL, who, we have already much put out about it. told the render, was pretty frequently seen Boy or girl P at Tilhy, standing ia the door of the Combely Girl, sir. Arms Hotel, was a young man who had never What age P been a favorite with his father since early About eight months, or thereabouts. boyhood. Like many gay men, who have Has it been enrolled on the list of pau- married early in life, Mr. Lipwell may have pers? looked with some little jealousy upon a son No, sir, not yet: we didnt know what who was a grown.up, fine young man, while name to give it. he himself was scarcely more than foxty. Come, Goldie, what name shall we say Very prepossessing in appearance, young for the child? demanded Mr. Lipwell. Lipwell was, nevertheless, weak-minded and The last one was called Hall, gentlemen, dull of intellect. At school, he never could suggested Wynne. learn his lessons, or conduct himself with XVeil, and why shouldnt this one be becoming deference to the rules of the mas- named likewise? ter. Tie hated books of every description, Let it be Flags, said Mr. Goldie; we including all sorts of novels, as well those of may as well have some variety. heavier character. He was a wonderful ath- But little hall is dead, said Wynne; letestrongly formed, tall and robust, with there isnt a foundling on the premises but the air of a prince, and a soul scarcely more this one. elevated than that of one of his fathers Put it down as Hall Flags, said Mr. grooms. He had been left motherless very Lipwell, jocularly; that will do for Chris- early in life. Since seven years ~l he tian and surname. scarcely knew what it was to be wit But for a girl, sir, it mightnt answer so affection or kindness. Larch Grove ~vas a well. Suppose wed say Mary Flags, or dim old place, grand in wood and water, yet Jane, or Betsy, or some such common female lonely as a tomb. The family generally went name, said Wynne, hesitatin0ly. up to London every spring for a month or Oh, anything you like, said his patron, two; but Oliver, or. Master Nol, as the only dont keep ~S nil day about it. tenants still called him, never cared for these Write down Mary Fla0s, paid Sir migrations to town. He neither loved music Thomas Combely. nor dancingthe opera gave him no pleas- Very good, sir, said David, taking up a ure; he hated balls as much as he hated pen, and openin0 the large book on the desk, books. Every refinement of society was dis- How shall I spell the surname? tasteful to him; so he preferred to remain Put two gs in it, said Mr. Goldie; in the country, where his companions were that will make it look respectable. nearly always of inferior rank. He liked And now, Wynne, look sharply about hunting and horse-racing, and spent mirac- you, that these sort of things do not occur ulous sums of money, though always seem- again, observed Mr. Lipwell; the cx- ing out at elbows, and being frequently in penses of the house have rather exceeded the debt, notwithstanding that his father gave usual rate for the last six months. him a handsome allowance; for Mr. Lipwell I know it, sir, returned Wynne; but had never been known to do anything shabby; its owing to the numbers in, and the invalids and though he despised his son for his low we had a great lay out for wine and chick- tastes and habits, he never stinted him in ens, and the like, for the sick wards in win- money. Occasionally, however, the young ter. man was afraid to disclose the unreasonable Having trimmed his pen, and got his hand extent of his debts and difficulties; and then, into writing order, David, thereupon, with he was obliged to obtain money as he best somewhat of a flourish, noted down the young could. Mr. Lipwell had long wished that stranger on the pauper list, as Mary Flaggs, his son would marry some woman of rank female child, aged eight months. Parents and strong intellect; he did not care so much and birthplace unknown. for a large fortune as for good birth; for the 202 LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. Lipwells were notorious for pride from gen- the duty here was too much for her, she was eration to generation. Indeed, Master Nol glad to leave the academy, and undertake was the only one of the name who, for years, the care of the little children at Larch Grove. had been known to he wanting in this grand Trained in habits of great regularity ~nd family attribute. Yes, if Oliver would seek primnessnever permitted to read a novel, to obtain the hand of a lady of rank and or know much of the general wickedness of good sense, his father would he quite satis- the ~vorld, the girl was rather ignorant and fled. Oliver was a foolthere was no mine- simple in many ways. She knew, of course, ing the matter; and so he must look out for that there existed such things as bad men a wise wifea woman who would lead him, and women, but she never thought that de- and direct him, and elevate his views. But ceit and hypocrisy, falsehoods and strata- the young man said he hated women. He gems, were so common as they unfortunately never knew what to say to them; and it was are, even among the so-called enlightened his belief that he never would marry at all. classes. Of these things she dreamed not In the mean time, Mr. Lipwell himself took herself, and she was slow to suspect them in a second wifea penniless young woman, o~ others. Treated kindly, but not tenderly, in high birth and great heauty, whose family the Orphans Home; treated sharply, but had long been in difficulties, and she was not cruelly, at Miss Simpkinss school, she glad enough to accept the proprietor of arrived at Larch Grove prepared to endure Larch Grove, even though the property was all treatment meekly. encumbered by an elder son, and she could The place was a fine one; there were scarcely hope that a child of her own a t lonely walks, and beautiful deer, and noble inherit it. old trees, and everything to suit a naturally When her elder girl was five years old a romantic taste; and she soon found that she nursei~ governess had been engaged to at- could be very happy with that elegant lady, tend A oung woman, an orphan, with- Mrs. Lipwell, who never said an uncourteous out a near relative in the wide world, under- word to hernor a very kind one; but that took to look after the two children for the was of no consequence to the quiet littlo moderate sum of twenty pounds a-year, and governess, who only looked for peace. Mr. was duly installed as governess at the Grove. Lipwell scarcely took any notice at all of her, She was not remarkably pretty, but interest- and for some time her life glided smoothly ing in appearance, and of gentle demeanor. along. The first occurrence which awoke Mrs. Lipwell for some time was completely the slightest suspicion in her employers satisfied with her; but by and by misgivings mind of her possessing any attraction for arose in her mind that her step-son was pay- the young man in the house, was a simple ing the girl too much attention. one; but it set her thinking, and on the qu~ Oliver Lip~vell had never been what is vive for other symptoms. Miss Price had termed a ladys man; he felt a sort of infe- been requested by her to hand a very weighty riority and humility in the presence of well- volume from a distant part of the drawiag.~ educated, elegant women of his own class; room, and with a politeness quite unusual to and it was not strange, that he should at- him, Oliver volunteered to bear the heavy tack himself at last to a girl of humble posi- burden, thus saving the delicate little gov- tion, in whose company he could feel at ease. erness from the trouble. Miss Prices father had been a clergyman, All at once Mrs. Lipwell grew alarmed; long deceased, and from her sixth year she she commenced to examine the girls feat- had been reared upon charitable resources. ures, and was forced to admit that they were The Bereft Orphans Home had sent her by no means l)lain. She was herself a re- forth, at the age of eighteen, to earn her markably handsome womantall and state- bread as a teacher, with ten pounds in ly, with a fair complexion and auburn hair; her pocket, and a well-arranged stock of and, naturally enough, she fancied her own clothes, to begin life with. At first, she ob- type of beauty the only one worth admir tamed a situation as under-governess in a ing; it had never occurred to her, that there ladies school, where she acquitted herself was anything particularly charming in Miss for a year and a half to the satisfaction of Prices diminutive style of face and figure. the Misses Simpkins; but on finding that Yet nowshe suddenly felt that she might LITTLE FLAGGSTHE AL*HOUSE FOUNDLING. be attractive. Was not her complexion clear and pureher dark hair glossyher head prettily formed, and her waist the smallest ever seen P Yes, Mrs. Lipwell knew well, that very large men always admired very little women; and therefore, she must watch. Her step-son was certainly oftener at home now than ever before; he sat, too, in the drawing-room in evenings, when his little sisters came there with their governess after dinner. Twice he placed a chair for ML~ Price near the fire; once he brought her music-book to the piano from the music- stand; once, also, he had stood behind her while she was singing. It was all very alarming; yet, what would the shrewd lady have said had she known what was going on behind the scenes? Were there not pretty walks round the ponds in the demense, where these young people had learned to saunter and converse; and had not Oliver told the governess here one mild autumn evening, that he thought her the sweetest, prettiest girl in the world? Yes, Mrs. Lipwell, it was so; and the best thing you could have done would have been to send away the little gov- erness altogether, without waitine for any further drawing-room evidences of her at- tractive qualities; hut Miss Price was pre- cious to her employer as an attendant for her childrennobody could get them to learn, or amuse them like her. It was very hard that she should be obliged to think of parting with her. The autumn and winter passed away, and then came the spring, and the moving up to town. The Lipwells left Larch Grove as usual to occupy their handsome house in Portman Square. The family and suite went, as announced in the Tilby Guardian; and greatly to Mrs. Lipwells annoyance, her step-son went also, instead of staying behind as in former seasons. Miss Price enjoyed the variety of going up to London with all her heart. She had never been in the great city before; and now its shops, its crowds, its rush and confusion, delighted her. She, poor girl, of course, entered into no actual gayetythe balls and opera were not for her; but she was allowed to drive in the park with the, and then she had her admirer in the son of her employer. To her there appeared no harm in this. If he thought her pretty, and told her so, who could help it? It was not in human nature 203 for an ignorant, unsophisticated girl to re- sist the temptation of feeling flattered at be- coming an object of attraction to a person so much her superior in rank as he was. Now, if she had been allowed to read nov- els, perhaps she might have known by this time that there was considerable danger and impropriety in a young woman of her posi- tion allowing a person of his standing and expectations to make love to her; but her instinct did not teach her this, though it taught her that she must not let Mr. or Mrs. Lipwell know anything of it. Flattered vanity merged at length into a deeper feel- ing. Oliver won her heart completely, and very proud be felt of his conquest. One delicate, refined girl, with the aspect of a gentlewoman, had, at length, confessed that she loved him. Well, he did not hate women after all. But what was to be the end of this love affair? Could he dream of marry- ing a governessa girl reared on charity a friendless young person cast on the world to earn her bread almost like a menial? llo~v he answered the question to his own heart we are not at liberty to tell yet. CHAPTER V. M155 PRICE ON hER TRAvELS. THE Lipwell suite at Portman Square be- gan to have their eye upon Mr. Oliver and Miss Price, and there was gossip abqut them in the kitchen department. The ladys maid said what she thought to the valet, and the valet reported his impressions to the butler, who, in turn made them known to the cook and housemaids, until every one down-stairs was on the alert. While all the time, nei- ther master nor mistress were told anything remarkable. All servants combine in a gen- eral wish, to outwit their immediate em- ployers; they are nearly always in league against the people whose wages they receive, Miss Price was too unassuming, too humble, to excite the ~vrath of any domestic, male or female, among the whole suite. The ladys maid thought herself much the handsomer young woman of the two, and better dressed, also; and she had her lovers everywherethe chief butler at Tilby was one of them, and Lord Blas6s own man was another; and she was not going to quarrel with Master Nol for taking a fancy to that poor, miserable little creature, who always looked as if she had been ill-treated and starved in her childhood LITTLE FLAGGST* ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. of course it was only a little bit of a pastime on the young gentlemans part, and would die out soon enough; and there was no use in saying anything to Mrs. Lipwell about it. If Mr. Oliver chose to say he was going to dine with a friend and could not accompany his parents to wherever they meant to spend their eveningwhat matter was it to anybody if he never ~vent out at all, but sat all the evening in the drawing- room, listening to Miss Price sing or play the piano? Nobody was going to tell tales as yet. And so the season in London to Miss Price vias just as pleasant as it was to any belle going on her first round of gayety in the great world. One morning she asked leave of Mrs. Lipwell to go out shopping for an hour, after the nursery breakfast, and received permission to do so. It might have been observed that she had a hurried, nervous air in making this request. Will you take Timmins with you to show you the best shops? asked Mrs. Lip- well. Oh, thank you, no, said Miss Price; I think I know very well where to goI dont want anythin~ of much consequence. But, will you find your way alone? I thinkI am sure I willI wont bc longer than an hour away. And she went up-stairs to put on her bon- net. It was just a simple straw bonnet, trimmed with a dark rihhon, but the face it shaded looked remarkably pretty that day a little agitated in expression, perhaps, and paler than ever hut with eyes shining brightly, and a look of sentiment in the whole countenance more striking than usual. WThat was it to her how she was dressed that fresh summer morning? Other young women in her circumstances might have thought of their attire, and wished it to he something gayer than that sombre cash- mere gownthat white-and-brown shawl those gray silk gloves; but would not a time come when she should be dressed as fine as the best lady in London? Poor girl! she thought it would. The shopping did not consist of many purchases; in fact, to tell the truth, it con- sisted of buying a skein of black silk, and, perhaps, that was only to save the buyers conscience from self-reproach, for the silk was not at all required. With a hurried air, she passed down the squarethen on through some streets, till she met somebody at an appointed place of rendezvousthe corner of a l)articular street. Then the two got into a cab and drove away towards the city. Perhaps she was away longer than an hour but Mrs. Lipwell was not a hard taskmis tress; indeed, she never thought whether the allotted time was outstayed or not. When Miss Price came back, she ran at once to her own roomand she was a good deal agitated, but not unpleasantly so. There was a weight off her minda secret satisfaction in her soul that must now buoy her up through all difficulties. The Lip- wells were not to stay much longer in town three months was all the time Mr. Lip- well could spare from his country duties. So as June advanced, the family returned to Larch Grove. If Miss Price was at all distraite, or more wearied by her pupil~ than was formerly the case, no one observed the change; if Oliver Lipwell grew morose and apparently dis- contented, nobody particularly cared. The summer passed away, and then he declared his intention of going to the Continent. lb said he would remain there for a month or two; but the month or two passed, and he did not come hack; no one got any letter from him at Larch Grove; his address was unknown. He might have been ill, dying, or dead, for all any one could tell in Eng- land. It was impossible for the governess to con- ceal her alarm at this crisis. 1-ler appetite forsook her, her flesh wore off, till she looked like a skeleton. Well, I do think Miss Price is falling into very bad health, thought the ladys maid; and then she began to have her sus- picions that nil ~vas not right. Should she be humane and befriend the governess, or prudent, and state her opinions to her mis- tress ? It would he well not to get herself into trouble about the matter; so prudence prevailed over humanity, and a hint was given to Mrs. Lipwell that it would be a good way to get Miss Price a situation elsewhereor, at all events, to let her leave Larch Grove. Acting upon which, the lady, very much shocked and perturbed, deputed her housekeeper, Mrs. Grubly, to speak to Miss Price, and demand an explanation of affairs. The result of this conference was, 204 LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSUOUSE FOUNDLING. that the governess received notice to leave Larch Grove as quickly as possible. She said nothing to palliate or excuse her con- ductuttered no words of blame against any one; indeed, Mrs. Grubly thought her rather bold and unfeeling; but she left the house immediately; Mr. Lipwell had given her a hundred pounds, and directed David Wynne to escort her to Liverpool, from whence she was to embark for Anrerica. All this was done very quietly, insomuch, that the affair was only rumored faintly abroed. Some people scarcely believing the story, others thinking it not worth much consideration. One dull winter day, Wynne and the girl set off for Liverpool. A thick misty rain was falling insidiously, ~vetting the outside pas- sengers of stage-coaches and pedestrian travellers, and making the whole outer world seem dismal in the extreme. Miss Price had her seat alone within the coach that conveyed her from the Larch Grove neighborhood; and all the time the wheels were moving round and round she was ma- turing some plans that had filled her mind ever since Mr. Lipwell had offered her a hundred pounds to induce her to leave Eng- land. It was not her intention to quit her native land at all. She considered that it would be much better for her to remain in it; and under the circumstances she was placed in, her conscience acquitted her of having done wrong in acting thus deceitfully towards Mr. Lipwell in taking his money under false pretences. In many ways, this unfortunate young woman was very shrewd, while in others she was as simple as a child, owing to her education and early training. The country through which she was pass- ing was wild and dreary at all times; but now, in the wintry rain, seeming more dreary than ever. David Wynne sat in his whitey- brown great-coat buttoned to the chin, and with a great red muffler round his neck, on the outside of the coach, telling wonderful stories to the coachman, and hearing some equally marvellous, in return; he joked and laughed, and 4as right merry, ing a grave thought upon the business he bad so lately been called upon to carry out, and concerning which he was now driving on that dismal day on his way to Liverpool. David was not a monster in human form; he was only like a great many inca of his class. He had duties now and th6h to per- form which might have made him appear hard-hearted. Was he not a skilful butcher, and did he not slaughter pigs and sheep with his own hands, when it was necessary to do so in his manage at the workhouse P Yes, with sleeves tucked up, he would drag forth the wretched brute designed for death, and l)ut an end to its existence, as coolly as he would eat a mutton-chop; yet he found no pleasure in injuring any one or anything without substantial reasons for doing so. Thus, when called upon to execute an un- pleasant duty by his patron, Mr. Lipwell, it does not follow that he must be a demon, because he undertook to fulfil it to the best of his ability. He got hi~ orders, and he obeyed them. It was not the first time that he had been obliged to act similarly. In his capacity as head-butler and confidential man in the Lipwell family, David had seen a good deal of life; he had been in London and at Paris, with the family; lie had known much of the young mens secretsand some of the old ones, too. Oh, David, like Suky Sparrow, could have told you such strange and thrilling stories of actual occurrences as would make you shudder; but he was not given to much talking when sober. No one better fulfilled the office of confidant than himself, ~s a general rule. CHAPTER VI. VERY MYSTERIOUS. Hn did not think that the quiet young woman inside the coach was likely to give him any great trouble. So he was able to chat and smoke, and get down at every hos- telry, to drink a dram with the coachman. At length, they arrived at the village of Coyle, a straggling hamlet lying in a deep valley, overhung by wild hills. Would you like to get out here, miss, and have something to eat? inquired Da- vid, making his appearance at the coach- window. What place is this? asked Miss Price, looking out, her-teeth chattering with cold, her face very pale, and her whole frame trembling nervously. Its Coyle, missforty-five miles from Tilby; weve gone at a smart pace, too. Yes, she would get out and warm her feet at the inn fire. The hostelry where the coach stopped now was a large detached building, standing apart. from other houses 206 LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. in the village: it had not a grim aspect, nor Grove, and questions asked and answered; one particularly the reverse, as to outward until Mrs. Drover, becoming more inquisi- sign; and the kitchen-fire was large and tive every moment, went out to the passage blazing, when Miss Price was brought in to and asked Wynne all about the young lady, warni herself; for, unfortunately, the par- and who she was, and where she was going br-fire had died out, and she was advisedto to. At first, David would not tell anything seat herself in this more humble apartment at all satisfactory, but on receiving a great while the parlor-fire was being relit. In mug of ale, he changed his mind, and grew this way, she became an object of attention more confidentialfor, after all, where was to the greater portion of the household. the necessity of being so close about the The servant-maid looked at her, and the business with people who naver went near mistress examined her features, while the Tilby P So when the parlor-fire was lit up, host, also, made his observations, from a and Miss Price had betaken herself to eat distance. Rather to her annoyance, she her biscuit and drink her ~vine in private, he found that Wynne greeted these people at and the Drovers got into great chat, accord- the inn as if they were old friends~vhich ing~as beer was consumed, and brandy added they really were, or, at least, old acquaint- to the entertainment. ances. And so the poor young lady is going to How are you, Mr. Drover.glad to see America, friendless, and maybe not much you looking so well and hearty, Mrs. Dro- money either, David. Did you ever hear if ver, he said, accosting the host and hostess, she had gut anything worth speaking of P cheerily, said Mrs. Drover. Well, Wynne, whod have thought of She got upwards of a hundred pounds, your coming by here to-day! exclaimed besides her half-years salary, that was near Mrs. Drover. And how are you all at heing due, replied Wynne, emptying a sec- Tilhv, and at Larch Grove P Dear, dear! I ond glass of brandy. Mr. Lipwells as havent seen a creature from that side this generous a man as there is under the sun, age!~ She has very little luggage, observed We are all much as usual, thank ye, Mrs. Drover. said Wynne, begging Miss Prices pardon, Thats her own fancy; she mi~ht have as he advanced to li~ht his pipe at the fire, got plenty of clothes, if she liked. and then going into the outer passane to After a good while of this kind of ques- smoke it and chat with Drover, tinning and answering, Mrs. Drover, not Youre from Tilby, too, no doubt, feeling the same respect as before for the maan~? said Mrs. Drover, addressing young traveller in the parlor, went in to sit Miss Price, after a survey of the small feet with her, and see that she was comfortable. resting on the fender. And it so happened, that the half-hour al- Not exactly, answered Miss Price, lotted for the wayfarers to dine, passed away, hoping to evade the curiosity apparent in the and the coach was put in readiness for its womans face. onward journey; and the dusk of the win- Maybe you know Larch Grove P was ters evening was already stealing over the the next question, and it sent the blood all landscape; but neither David Wynne nor rushing from her heart. Miss Price were in or on the coach when it Yes, I know it. set off from Coyle that afternoon. Ah, many a pleasant hour I had there * * * * * five-and-twenty years ago; I was housemaid Mr. Lipwell had congratulated himself in it, miss, and I often nursed little Master warmly on getting rid of the governess with- Nolnot that hes little now, for I saw him out mote trouble and expesure. Indeed, about three years ago, and he was as fine a from her demeanor throughout the business, gentleman as Id wish to see. I love to meet he rather supposed her to be either half- any one from poor old Tilby. What shall I witted or devoid of natural feeling. She get ready for dinner, miss P had appeared so strangeso undemonstra- I shall only have a biscuit and wine, tiveso impassive. It had been impossible answered the poor girl, very faintly, to exasperate her into reproaches, or tears, And then there was more talk about Larch or hysterics. She had agreed to leave Larch LITTLE FLAGGSTI-IE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. Grove and go abroad without a remonstrance or a murmur; and she had been given a letter of recommendation to an old Larch Grove servant, now comfortably settled in Canada, and everything possible done to ease Mr. Lipwells conscience. What had be- come of his son he knew not; it was grievous to him to think of possessing such a son; for he hated the Lipwell name to be con- nected with disgraceful practices. He was thus thinking how well it was that Miss Price had gone away so quietly, when a let- ter reached him from David Wyane that upset all his calculations. It contained these words HONORED SIR,I regret to say that Miss Price has escaped with all the money you gave her, greatly to my perturbation of mind and sorrow of heart, on account of your respected feelings in the matter. Search has been instituted everywhere, without avail; no trace of her has been found anywhere. The coach, as you are aware, stopped to (line at Coyle, as is the general rule, and while we ~vere stopping there, she feigned sudden illnessit couldnt have been reality, as was afterwards provedand objected to contin- uing her journey for that day; so, of course, I couldnt help agreeing to her stratagem, and allowed her to stay for the night at the inn there (which is kept by Richard Drover, who is married to Patty Marchmont, that was living in my time in Larch Grove), and next morning she was nowhere to be found! In dismay, I sought, diligently through the neighborhood for tidings of her, but totally devoid of success. The night had turned out fearfully wild, as, perhaps, you may recollect, honored sir. Heavy masses of cloud obscured the sky; therq was no moon nor star visible, and the wind howled most awful to listen to; a thick rain, also fell rapidly; how she could have gone afoot such weather, is beyond my compre- hension, and taking the money too, which was highly dishonorable to my mind; but what could be expected from such a person? I cannot say how grieved I feel at such a termination to your excellent intentions re- ~pecting this young woman. It has struck ihe that she might have thrown herself into the river that runs close by Coyle, which is much swollen now, and very turbulent to look at; but I am waiting here to receive further instructions from yourself; and if youll excuse the liberty, maybe you had better come to Coyle yourself, and see what had best be done.Yonr obedient and faith- ful servant, DAVID WYNNE. 207 This was very bad news indeed; Mr. Lip- well read the letter in a state of much agi- tation. The idea of Miss Price having com- mitted suicide was very awful. He dared not mention a word of Wynnes letter to his wife, but taking refuge in that general term, going from home on business, which hus- bands make use of when they dont wish to tell their wives why they are really betaking themselves to distant regions, he set off as soon as possible for Coyle. There he met David, who entered more fully into particu- lars respecting the mysterious disappearance of Miss Price. The Drovers offered every assistance in their power, but no success at.~ tended the search for the missing one. No coach or other public conveyance had carried the fugitive to London, or elsewhere; no young woman of respectable appearance, wearing a dark dress and plain straw bon- net, trimmed with spotted brown ribbon, had been seen walking by herself anywhere. The river near Coyle was dragged, but no dead body recovered from its waters; per- haps it had been carried miles away by the strong current. This is an unfortunate business, Wynne, said Mr. Lipwell, dejectedly. If I thought the girl was safe, I would not so much mind her escaping, but Safe, sir! what could happen to her with- out people knowing something of it? re- plied Wynne. Depend upon it, shes safe enoughno fear of that. Do you think Drover would object to our searching his premises? Oh, no, sir, returned Wynne, without the least change of countenance; I am sure you may go all over the house from top to bottom. Wynne, thereupon withdrew, to commu- nicate with the host and hostess of the inn, and in a few moments after Mrs. Drover bustled in, looking most obliging and rea~ sonable, and offering to conduct Mr. Lipwell over every room in the house. Up-stairs and down-stairs they went, peering into closets, garrets, lock-up rooms, coal vaults, sculleries. No trace of the young woman anywhere. The outer door of the inn had been found ajar, Mrs. Drover said, the morning on which she ~vas missed, and as no one had seen her pass out, it was to be concluded that she had made her escape before daylight perhaps,. in the middle of the night. Perhaps so. 208 Mr. Lipwell was by no means easy in his mind. Some terrible thoughts had taken possession of him, but he tried to banish themtried to believe she had run away with all her money, and was safe somewhere anywhere. Could there have been a secret correspondence between her and his son? In spite of her assurances to the contrary, could she have known where he was abroad, and laid a scheme to join him there? There was evidently no use in searching round Coyle any further; so Mr. Lipwell and Wynne returned home, each keeping the secret closely in his own breast, even from his wife. It was long before any tidings were heard of Oliver Lip~vell, and when he made his ap- pearance at last at Larch Grove, he looked haggard, ill-dressed, and wretched. He said he had only recovered from a violent fever, caught at Rome, and had for weeks been in- sensible or delirious. He was obliged to put the best face he could upon affairs, and state what was most prudent to his father respecting Miss Price. His step-mother, who had never been disposed to like him, now treated him very coldly; so that along with whatever feelings of remorse and self- reproach that his own conscience gave him, he had to endure much from his father and his fathers wife. But he confided his un- happiness to no one, even in his most un- guarded moments; and like many individu- als of a low class of mind, he endeavored to stifle the little feeling nature had endowed him with, his selfishness and sensuality mak- ing it hard for him to bear even that much. Thus he frequented Tilby hotel oftener than ever, drinking more and more brandy, and sometimes sitting up whole nights carousing uproariously. Meanwhile that story rumored through Tilby about the Larch Grove governess turned out of the house mysteriously, and despatched to America or Australia, at Mr. Lipwells expense, was dying away from day to day. Sarah Price, by father or mother, had no relatives or friends that cared to de- mand her whereabouts with anxiety. The superior of the Bereft Orphans Home would indeed have been sorry to know her fate, but she had too much to do to enter into inqui- ries respecting young people once provided for and sent out upon the world to push their own way through life~ LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. How many mysteries are there that fade from mens minds unsolved? How many crimes perpetrated in the depths of night or height of noonday that are never reve~led? Oh, awful day, when churchyard graves will give up their dead, and corpses rise from ocean caves, and skeletons start up in spots never before known to contain remains of human form! CHAFTER VII. LITTLE FLAGOS AT THE ALMSHOU5E. LITTLE FLAGGS grew day by day, thriv- ingly, under Suky Sparrows care; and Mrs. Wynne might have been observed coming oftener into the yard than heretofore, though she would not acknowledge, even to herself, that it was with reference to the foundling, which it really was. Suky Sparrow fared all the better for the trouble she took with her young charge, and got more presents of tea and sugar than ever before, while it was won- derful how many oranges and cakes the ma- tron always happened to have in her pockets just when she came to see how the child was getting on. Wynne himself, however, was a long time before he would vouchsafe it anything but scowls and gruff words, which were extended even to Suky; but by degrees he learned to tolerate it, though he never could be prevailed upon to regard it kindly. When it began to run about and speak, it made friends for itself very quickly all through the yards and wards; and one par- ticular day, ~vhen it betrayed an inclination to accompany Mrs. Wynne to the dwelling- house (as the matrons apartments were designated), she was so much flattered, that she conveyed it to her own parlor, and set it amongst her own little girls, who quickly made a 1)laything of it, the youngest, in par- ticular, raising loud lamentations when it was conveyed away again. It will come back another time, mammas own pet, said Mrs. Wynne, fondly kissing her fat, screaming child; to-morrow it shall return theres a darling, doty, pre- cious! And then the screaming dwindled down to great sobs, indicative of a breaking heart, while Suky Sparrows retreating foot- steps sounded fainter and fainter. So the animated plaything had to be brought back duly next day, and the day after, till this daily visit of Little Flaggs was regarded quite as a regular institution. Suky now ventured to LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. 209 observe, that a little white frock would look resumed Mrs. Blackly, where may you and uncommon nice on her charge, when she I be when she is a grown-up woman P was thus honered by being taken to the Here, just as we are now, as likely as dwelling-house, upon which Mrs. Wynne at anything else, said Suky. People live a first replied scoffingly, but at length agreed l6~g time when they dont care whether they to give the child one that was too small for are living or dead. her own children; and this was followed by With the daily visits to the little Wynnes, sundry other presents of clothes, till the poor and the good-will of her companions in the foundling looked quite genteel if we may nlmshouse, the childs life passed happily be permitted to use the old-fashioned term. from season to season; till from the totter- She looked like a little spirit sent down into ing step of infancy, she advanced to the that dim yard of the almshouse, where all sturdy walk of riper childhood, wielding a were old, or decrepit, or idiotic, but herself; sort of despotism over her seniors. No and the inmates grew to love her for her other foundling appeared at the asylum; sweet temper and pretty ways. Old Tim she reigned there supreme. The Miss Phippshalf silly from the effects of epilep- Wynnes petitioned their mother to let her tic fits, notched sticks curiously for her; and learn to read and write with them, and after the poor idiot, Sally Bird, could be seen a time this was agreed to, as it was found often walking round the yard with the child that it would be of advantage to the young- in her arms, its tiny hands resting confid- est child to have a companion in her studies. ingly on the brown neck, tanned and weath- i Up to her seventh year, Little Flaggs was as er-beaten, till it looked like leather, or strok- happy as a queen, but after that came a ing the coarse, cropped hair. So far Little change. Mrs. XVynne began to think it in- Flaggs led the life of ayoung princess; no- judicious to allo~v her any longer to associate body thwarted her; her attendants were familiarly with her own daughters; it might numerous, and every want that she felt was lead to ill results on both sides. supplied. Happy are the days of childhood, A dark day arrived when the child was not when homage is paid to weakness and inno- to go to the dwelling-house at the usual cence. hour; but a sort of compromise was made, Suky Sparrow felt particular pride in dress- which permitted her to go that evening to ing her charge carefully on board-days, and tea. Next day she neither went in the morn- her old heart ~vas glad when Mr. Lipwell or ing nor evening, nor never again except when Sir Thomas Corn bely passed the child with summoned there on business by the matron. a kind word or pleasant smile of recognition; It was necessary, now, to let Mary Flaggs she was taught to answer these salutations understand that she was by no means on an with a respectful courtesev, like the other fe- equal footing with her former playmates. male inmates of the establishment. It was This change was a great blow to her; at only on board-days that Wynne was civil to first abe could scarc~1y comprehend it. Day the foundling. Whcn he saw Mr. Lipwell pay- after day she sat in the yard, with eyes fixed ing her attention, he would follow his exam- upon the distant windows of the Wynnes ple and make jocund observations to her, apartments, vainly watching for a glimpse patting her on the head, or stroking her of her former friends. Never did lover watch cheek paternally, his ladys bower with more longing gaze, Shell be a great beauty when she grows than did this poor child contemplate those up, Mrs. Blackly, said Suky one day to the glistening panes. cook. Suky, am I never to go any more to the Its likely she may; but pretty children dwelling-house? she asked one day after dont often turn out handsome men or wo- the great clock had struck the hour which men. P had formerly been the signal for her to re- But Mary is growing better looking pair thither. every day. What a pity she isnt some grand No, never again, its like. persons child, theyd think so much of her; But why not? Did I do anything and you know by and by maybe her beauty wrong? will only be a drawback to her. No; but youre not grand enough to Its time enough to think of that, Suky, keep company with the Miss Wynnes; they THIRD SERIES. LIVING AGE. 977 210 are young ladies; their father was a butler, and their mother a housemaid, but nobody knows who your father and mother was. Little Flaggs did not understand the iron- ical tendency of this speech; she received it all literally, and was very downcast. Per- haps this was the first draught she drank of the worlds disappointments ; it tasted very bitter to her. Suky Sparrow was then called upon to amuse and divert her, from dwelling too deeply on her bereavement; and all the wonderful stories that the old woman related, both of fact and fiction, were tre- mendous to think of. Although generally joyous-spirited enough, Little Flaggs had, nevertheless, her fits of gloom and nervous- ness, strange in so young a child. She would sit for hours listening to ~ukys tales of mur- ders committed at wayside inns, or ghosts that were known to haunt particular locali- ties, and then she was contented enough; but Suky could not tell stories forever; there were times when. poor little Mary must he left to herself and her own thoughts, and then, she he0an to weave little romances in her own head, and build castles in the air. Do you think Ill live here all my life? she asked Suky one day, after a long fit of musing. Well, I dont suppose you will, replied Suky. Would you like to go away? Not now; but when I am grown up I would. Thats a long way off, Mary. Go and get your book, and read out of it, said Suky, drawing forth her knitting, and retiring to a shady part of the yard, where the days sun- beams had not yet begun to pour fiercely. Little Flaggs did as she was desired; for reading was a great pleasure to her, and she commenced edifying her nurse, by reading out a terrible story of highwaymen and bur- glars, which was a great favorite at the alms- house. Soon there was quite a crowd of crip- ples and old people gathered round her to listen, and she felt very proud of being able to amuse them. Bless your clever head! murmured Suky, as she went on, never pausing at a word, however pollysyllabled. The chap- lain himself couldnt read better than that! So the child read on, page after page, be- LiTTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. ing interrupted now and then by the vacant laugh of an idiot, or the gabbling of some unmeaning nonsense. The hot sun beamed on the yard; the huge chimney of the kitchen boiler sent forth volumes of dense, sooty- smelling smoke; the noise of spinning-ma- chines and ~veavers looms at work sounded from those portions of the building devoted to industry, while, ever and anon, could be heard the distant shout and song of some maniac too dangerous to be admitted to the general yard. This was the last day, how- ever, that Little Plaggs was allowed to read out about the highwaymen, as David Wynnes mother arrived on a visit at the dwelling-house; and she, being of serious principles, strongly objected to such litera- ture, substituting in its stead stories of a graver cast, which, we regret to say, were considered very uninteresting in the yard. Old Mrs. VvTynne was a very small woman, scarcely four feet nine inches high, and pro- portionately slight in figure. She was now a very sedate, prim flttle hody, though she had made a runaway match at eighteen, white yet in her apprenticeship to a milliner at Hull, and had committed a great many frol- icsome pranks in her youth, which no one would believe who saw her in her sixty-ninth year, dressed in her simple black garments, relieved by snowy cap and collar, her face wearing an expression of gravity bordering almost upon severity. She was very anx- ious ahout the spiritual welfare of the pau- pers, and it was to her that the poor found- ling owed her first religious instru etion, beyond the few simple prayers taught her by her nurse. The old woman insisted that Little Flaggs should he taken to church every Sunday, and made to attend a Sunday School class, where she learned the Cate- chism and Bible texts, and was becoming speedily quite a little scholar. In all her dreams of ambition, the child never xvent be- yond hoping that she might be ultimately raised to the rank of dressmaker or ladys maid, and some wild schemes had already entered her head of benefiting Suky Spar- row and various other alilishouse friends, when she should be able to earn her own bread. Would her old nurse ever want for tea when she was grown up; or would Paul Watts then have to grumble because he never got a bit of tobacco? LITTLE FLAGGSTrIE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. CHAPTBII VIII. THE FATAL SHOT. ALL Tilby was in excitement; masses of people filled the streetssome stopping to talk in groups, some hurrying in a long line in a particular direction. Fright, curiosity agitation of some kind, was pictured on al- most every countenance. The cause was this; a duel had been fought that morning between Oliver Lipwell and a young man of inferior rank in the neighborhood. A drunken quarrel had ended thus; and news bad flowrr all round, that the heir of Larch Grove was being carried all but lifeless into town. Everybody was out of doorsevery tongue was busy. Such an end for Mr. Lipwells only son! David Wynne felt that he had a better right to be in a fuss and a fume than any one not actually connected with the family, and he rather resented the interest in the matter displayed by other townsmen, though, probably, he would have been equdly annoyed had they proved them- selves indifferent upon such an occasion. Mrs. Wynne had clapped her hands and raised loud lamentations when she heard the news; for like most women, she had always taken the part of poor Mr. Nol, because he was handsome and a scamp, and unable to conduct himself like other sober-going men. Not dead, but nearly insensible: the huge young man, two hours before full of strength and darino now entered Tilby, borne slowly by many hands. He was cunveyed at once to his old haunt, the Combely Arms, there to await medical advice, while a messenger was despatched with the ill news to Larch Grove; and meanwhile, David Wynne and his wife stationed themselves beside his couch with unaffected concern. The remedies to restore consciousness were followed at length by success; and young Lipwell recognized Wynne, to whom he extended his hand feebly. This has been an unlucky business, David, he said in a low tone. I feel that I am sinking fast. Very unlucky, indeed, Mr. Nol, said Wynne; but there may be no danger after all. These sort of wounds aint always so bad as they seem. Right well David knew that the young man would never leave that couch a living man; but what was the use of frightening the poor fellow, he thought. 211 I feel as if there was much danger my- self, continued Oliver, speaking feebly; and then, after a pause, he added, Can I trust you, David, with a few words in pri- vate? Oh, dear! yes, sirany word you likes you know Im close as iron. Well, let the doctor know I wish to speak with you alone. Wynne, thereupon, grew very important, re~questing Dr. Lawrence and his wife to leave the apartment for a few minutes, and allow Mr. Lipwell and himself to say a few words together in private. They accordingly quitted the room, and honorably left even the outside lobby, lest stray words might reach them there; but scarcely had they done so, than a waiter, named Matthew Drover, who had heard that Wynne and the wounded man were about to hold a secret conference, stepped noiselessly up to the door, and with ear pressed against the key- hole, listened attentively, and with the keen hearing common to serving-men, to any words that might be dropped loud enough to reach him where he was stationed. We are alone now? said Oliver Lipwell, looking cautiously round the room, while the first flush of fever was glowing on his cheek its first flash beaming in his eye. An un- n tural strength was accorded to him while he spoke. Yesall safe, sir, replied Wynne. Another pause now. You remember Miss Price, Wynnethe governess that was at Larch Grove eight years ago? asked Lipwell, making an ef- fort to speak calmly. Yes, sir, most certainly, said David, feeling rat her surprised and taken aback. I have never yet spoken to you of this young lady, continued Oliver; but my father told me how you were commissioned to see that she left England, and that she escaped your vigilance, carrying with her whatever money my father had given her. Its a fact, sir, said Wynne. On your oath, Wynneon your oath, as you know you are speaking to a dying man? As far as I can say to my knowledge, sil..,, On your oathno hesitation, Wynne. you believe that this young lady escaped alive from Coyle. 212 LITTLE FLAOGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. Mr. Nol, surely, sir you cant his family that he had been thus taken away; Never mind what I think or mean; only for he was fast running to destruction; answer my questions truthfully. Do you con- since boyhood he had reflected neither aider this young lady to be living or dead? honor nor credit to the name of Lipwell. Not living now, sirshe would have But his father thought differently. All his been heard of before this, if she was, no former unkind treatment of this unfortunate doubt. son rose up bitterly to reproach him. Never But we have no proof of her death; she did man grieve more deep~y than Mr. Lipwell. may turn up yet. From the day of that large funeral, when Never, sir, said Wynne, confidently. long strings of tenants flocked to pay tribute Depend upon it, shell never trouble us rather to the living than the dead, he was more. never seen to hold up his head as of old. But, I say, there is no certainty of her The iron-gray hair became rapidly white; death. Listen, David. I believe myself to the lithe figure, that for so many years had be dyingI may not live even to meet my defied the hand of time, became suddenly father; and in case of my death, I wish you stooped. He was, indeed, an altered man. to tell him from me that Sarah Price was His two daughters now assumed a greater my wifelawfully married in London, at degree of importance than before in the eyes St. Marks Church.~ of the neighborhoodthe elder one being Married, sir! regarded as heiress to the estates of Larch Yes; do not take up my time with excla- Grove. Mrs. Lipwell also became more ac- mations. I regretted this step bitterly after- tive than formerly in the management of af- wardsknowing my fathers great pride fairs at the Groveher husband having lost his wish that I should marry a person of much of his activity and energy, though he rank; yet I would have braved his anger still attended the board-days at the Alms- and confessed the whole truth, had it been house with his accustomed regularity, and possible for me to discover what had become: seemed to find pleasure in talking to Wynne of her. It sometimes struck me, Wynne, of the past; but Wynne never told him the that she might not have run away at all secret confided to him by Mr. Oliver on his thatthat she was dead, and that you and death-bed. David was a shrewd man, rarely my father knew it. speaking of matters unadvisedly to his supe Wynne shook his head positively, never riors, and gifted with sufficient understand- flinching from the wounded mans feverish ing to know that the bearer of unwelcome gaze. tidings is often considered responsible for, Its all a mystery, sir; theres nothing the evil news imparted by him. He would certain in the matter. let Mr. Lipwell grieve for his lost son in If I die, Wynne, tell my father of my peace; and agree with all his sentiments re- marriage ; if I live, you may keep it secret. specting himeven declaring that it was his But, unless the lady turns up, as you full belief (which was an untruth) that had say, I neednt tell it in any case, sir ? he been spared he would have been an orna Perhaps notexcept for the sake of her ment to his name. character. He had always thought, he said, that there Ah, sir, it has all died away about the was much of talent and sense in Mr. Oliver, poor lady nowyoud scarce hear her men- only waiting to be drawn out by some oppor- tioned. tunity. Had he got a seat in Parliament, I suppose notwhat a twinge I felt then; or anything of that sort, people would have hand me the water, my throat burns! seen how he would have shone. Very soon after speaking thus much, and Indeed, Wynne, I have sometimes a little more, Lipwell fell into a sleep, which thought that myself, said poor Mr. Lipwell; ended in a heavy stupor, from which he I often think I should have acted differ- never was afterwards roused. By the time ently to my son. I believe I have alto- his father and step-mother arrived at Tilby, gether been to blame myself for all his fol- he was utterly insensibleand on the follow- lies. ing afternoon, he ceased to breathe. People Oh, dear, no, Mr. Lipwell. No father in the neighborhood said it was well for could have been kinder than you ware, re~ LITTLE FLAGGSTHE ALMSHOUSE FOUNDLING. eumed Wynne, quickly. You know young men will be young men. Its my belief, its all chance how they turn outparents are not so responsible as people imagine for their childrens good or ill behavior. Why, sir, Ive known sons that were brought up as prim and regular as ever you saw turn out monstrous scapegraces. And thus Mr. Lipwell allowed Wynne to pour words of honeyed flattery into his earsand they were sweet to listen to though he was not fool enough to believe them, or even to believe that Wynne be- lieved them. But, are we not nearly all weak enough to be soothed by humbug now and thencajoled out of our senses? A fine monument was erected to the memory of Oliver Lipwell in the quiet little church at Larch Grove. There it stood, just facing the Lipwell pew; and for a long while the father could not bear to look at it; bul neither Mrs. Lipwell nor her daughters minded it particularly, except that, during a long sermon, the young ladies, perhaps, used to read the inscription five or six times over, knowing the exact length of time it took to do so, and hoping thereby to beguile the dreary time. WALLED LAKEsIn No. 965 of the Living Age is an article upon the Wonderful Walled Lake in Wright Co., Iowa, which is mentioned as a curiosity of singular interest, and as haviu~, been the product of human skill. About four years since, a nearly similar ac- count ~vent the rounds of the newspapers; and noticing, from various comments, that this wall formation was attributed to the skill of some aboriginal race, I requested Professor Daniels, our State Geolo~ ist, ~vho, I was informed, had met with numerous works of this kind in his professional excursions in the West, to write an explanation of the process hy which this stone formation had heen constructed, and I herewith enclose a copy of his paper upon the subject. It is very pleasant to have visits from our distant Eastern friends, and we helieve that a trip into this broad prairie region of the West cannot prove otherwise than beneficial to our staid Atlantic cousins ; but to induce them to make a thousand-mile trip to see a la/ce fortified by a parapet of stone,the work of the Aztecs, or perhaps nearer relatives of Father Noah,is a little too practical a joke to be enjoyed as funny, and so it seems proper to prick this curi osity bubble. D. Madison, Wisconsin, July, 1858. I have just read the notice of a Walled Lake in Wright County, Iowa, to which you called my attention. I recognize in the descrip- tion a phenomenon common in the North-West, though perhaps rarely exhibited as perfectly as in the case here stated. Walls similar to that described occur around many of our lakes, and around marshes which have been lakes at a comparatively recent period. Those walls are usually composed of boul- ders, and exhibit varying degrees of regularity, from mere confused heaps of rock to the com- pact structure and appearance of an artificial wall. They are due to the conjoint action of those potent agencies, ice and water, acting upon the drift formation which is always found where those walled lakes occur. Let us suppose a lake occupying a basin sur- rounded by banks of drift. Let it he understood that the drift of this re~ion consists of alternat- ing beds of sand, gravel, and clay, intermingled with boulders. The action of the waves and falling rains upon the banks will remove the lighter and finer particles from year to year far into the lake. The boulders commingled with the fine material, bein~ heavy and difficult of transport, will drop down nearly at the points where they lay, and remain scattered along the margin of the lake. If now the lake is frozen, the expansive force of the ice pushes up everything movable near the shore, and forms a ridge at the uttermost limit reached by the congealed water in expand- ing. This ridge will consist mainly of boulders, covered by and mixed with sand, gravel, and the exuvi~ of the shore. When the ice melts, every- thing hut the boulders is soon washed away on the side of the ridge towards the lake, and the boulders are there exposed, forming a rough wall; subsequent congelations crowd the boul- ders closer together, against the hank or ridge, and render the wall more perfect. In this man- ner the lakes of Wisconsin, Iowa, and Minne- sota have often become girt with walls, having a very artificial character, properly referable to physical la~vs operating nuder peculiar circum- stances. Several other lakes exist in our immediate vicinity, around whose shores the parallel ridges and lines of boulders mark the ancient action of the same causes. The Third Lake exhibits this agency very finely, and a very extensive marsh, includitig about fifteen hundred acres of hog and peat, ten miles west of this place, shows a very splendid specimen of this natural wall-building several miles in length. This is the case with Lake Menona which forms the south-east boundary of our city. This marsh, like most other marshes, was the basin of an ancient lake, and the distribution of its boulders marks its outer limits. It is nor uncommon for the ridges and walls to he pushed up much higher than the adjacent land outside. There is no dif- ficulty in supposing, therefore, that the ~vater in the lake might thus stand at a level above the land beyond the bank beyond its barriers. I see nothing in the Iowa case that should constitute it an exception. In your minute oh- serv~ tions in the West, you must have eacoun- tered frequent cases of this kind. (Signed) EDWARD DANIELS, State Geologist. 213 214 MR. ~ S WILD WALES. From The Spectator. In the course of Mr. Borrows wanderings MR. BORROWS WILD WALES.~ he caught very happily the salient points in Tins is the first really clever book we re- the Welsh character, and he has depicted member to have seen in wNich an honest them with those light free touches which attempt is made to do justice to the Welsh none but George Borrow can hit off to such character and Welsh literature. If Welsh- perfection. Many a man would have gone men had any wish to propitiate the Saxons over the route taken by Mr. Borrow and in their favor, they would undoubtedly feel come back with the report that all was bar- considerably indebted to the experienced, ren. But iRomany Rye goes about his shrewd, and discerning traveller who passed work after a different method, and, with much through a great portion of their country on of the freshness, humor, and geniality of his foot a few years ago, and now presents the early days, he tells us of the folks he en- world with a most entertaining account of countered, and the magnificent scenes he his adventures. But we do not believe they gazed upon during his light-hearted rovings. have any such desire. Their mildest feeling His knowledge of the Welsh language was towards the Saesneg is that of jealousy and a very great assistance to him, although more aversion, while in many instances this prej- than once he came across a rugged Cwai- udice assumes a much more virulent form, meg, who refused to answer him, or. an- and breaks out into uncompromising hatred swered him in Englishunwilling to ac- and enmity. The Welsh have not yet rec- knowledge that a Saxon could speak Welsh. onciled themselves to be friendly with their his knowledge of old Welsh literature is conquerors. They cling to their language immeasurably greater than that which most with the tenacity peculiar to a conquered educated Welshmen possess, and his admi- people; and although they have never ration for the bards is something wonderful. sought to regain their independence, like the IDafydd av Gwilym he calls the greatest Irish, yet no one who has lived among them poetical genius that has appeared in Europe can doubt that they regard themselves as since the revival of literature praise that a down-trodden nation, and believe that we must venture to submit is absurdly ex- Wild Wales has never been the glorious aggerated, and is certainly more than Welsh- land it was since the hateful Saxon suhju- men claim for the bard. On several occasions gated it. This is the feeling among those Mr. Borrow made troublesome pilgrimages who are thorough-bred Welshmenin the to birthplaces of the bards, and nearly border counties it is far ldss strongly evinced, scratched himself to pieces in scrambling to and those who are Welsh by birth, but have the chair in which Iluw Morris used to sit. mixed much with the English, are rarely On another day he found out the tombstone found to possess any bias whatever against of this bard, and kissed it reverentlyan the Sacsneg. They learn the language will- act of devotion which probably no Welsh- ingly, and eventually get almost ashamed to man ever yet thought of paying to the poet. speak their own. But the true Welshman He went some distance out of his way to can neither endure to hear an Englishman visit the spot where Gronwy Owen was born, speak Welsh, nor will he learn to speak of whose Cywydd y Fain (Day of Judg- English himself. He is very hospitable and meat), he remarks: The Cywydd of warm-hearted where he takes a liking, but Judgment contains some of the finest things implacable and a little treacherous, perhaps, ever writtenthat description of the top- towards those who awaken his nationaljeal- pling down of the top crag of Snowdon, at ousies and resentments. Once make a the Day of Judgment, beats anything in Welshman your friend and he will cling to Homer. The figure in question is, no you, and, if need be, fight for you, with im- doubt, a grand and striking one; but we do movable fidelity; but make him your enemy, not know where Mr. Borrow has found the and no lapse of time or change of circum- description he prizes so much. Here are stances will extinguish his animosity. the words Au ir ar ad Eryri, * Wild Wales: its People, Language, and Cyfartal hoe~va1 a hi;~ & energ. By George Borrow, author of the Bi- which Mr. Borrow thus translates: The ble in Spain, etc. 3 vols. London: John Mur ray, 1862. brow of Snowdon shall be levelled with the MR. BORROWS WILD WALES. grou~d, and the eddying waters shall mur- once the city of the Romans, and the spot mur round it. This does not totally eclipse where King Arthur held his round table Homer,but it is better to find a clever man now a half-dilapidated village, but well wor- like Mr. Borrow having an undue partiality thy of a passing visit. When Tennyson was for the Welsh bards than devoting his pow- writing his Idylls of the King, he took ers, as so many before him have done, to up his ahode some few days in Caerleon, at turning them into derision. He has taken an inn, where he was discovered, in conse- generally an enthusiastic view of the Welsh quence of entering his name in a book kept character, that a longer residence among the at the little local museum of Roman antiqui- people would have corrected. ties. The fact, perhaps, is that Mr. Borrow That the Welsh language is slowly dying was frigbtened away by the many railroads out we are convinced. Welsh parents begin in and around Newport, and was anxious to to find that they are doing their children an get beyond the screecb and roar of locomo- injury if they do not teach them to speak tives as soon as possible. English, and when once English is spoken Welshmen generally are Dissentersa fact Welsh is soon dropped. Mr. Borrow found which the Church may attribute to its own an amusing instance of this near Wrexham. half-heartedness and neglect. Wherever a Meeting a Welshman he addressed him in clergyman, properly qualified, settles down his own tongue, and received no reply. He in Wales, he brings the people over to him tried him again, with the same result. The fast; but there are few churches in the coun- unsuspicious Cwmraeg was then taken in by try and many chapels. The dull, dirty, low the Romany Rye: meeting-place of the Methodists meets ones eye on almost every hill-side and in every populated valley; and in dissent, as in all other things with which they take up warmly, the Welsh are very inflexible, obstinate, and, we may add, bigoted. In the course of more of his rambles, Mr. Borrow met with one Morgan, with whom after his usual manner he held a conversation touching Welsh man- ners and literature. In the course of his remarks Morgan, being, no doubt, a pep- pery man, gave expression to his views in these words For the third time I spoke to him in Welsh; whereupon, looking at me ~vith a grin of savage contempt, and showing a set of teeth like those of a mastiff, he said, Hows this? why, havent you a word of English? A pretty fellow you ith a long coat on your back and no English on your tongue. Aint you ashamed of yourself? Why, here am I in a short coat, yet Id have you to know that I can speak English as well as Welsh; ay, and a good deal better. All people are not equally clebber, said I, still speaking Welsh. Clebber, said he, clebber! ~vh t is clebber? Why cant you say clever? why, I never saw such a low, illiterate fellow in my life ; and, with these words, he turned away, with every mark of disdain, and entered a cottage near at hand. Old Welshmen in the north would not utter a word of English to save their lives; but as the trayeller approaches the south he finds that the Welsh is less and less in use. When Mr. Borrow was at Newport, he heard little or no Welsh, though had be been in the filthy market of that town on a Saturday he might have heard a little spoken. He is mistaken, however, in his conjecture that the people for seven or eight miles to the east of Newport speak Welsh, more or less. A few may be able to do so, but by far the majority know nothing whatever of the lan- guage. It is to be regretted, by the way, that, while Mr. Borrow was at Newport, he did not turn aside to go through Cacricon There are only two churches in the world that will take in anybody without asking questions, and will never turn them out, however bad they may belsave; the one is the Church of Rome, and the other the Church of Canterbury; and if you look into the matter you will find that every rogue, rascal, and hanged person since the world began has belonged to one or other of those communions. The venom and ignorance of this onslaught give it the appearance of burlesque, but we do not in the least doubt that many a Welshman would seriously and heartily give his assent to Morgans proposition. We have as little doubt that the Church itself is responsible for this feeling, inasmuch that it has treated Wales with great and systematic indifference and coldness. The Welsh are essentially a warm-hearted, devout, and superstitious race; they will have religion of some kind, and 216 when once they have embraced a creed they will hardly ever forsake it. The Methodists, being always on the alert, have, of course, made the ground their o~vn, and it will not be in the present generation that the Church will gain the position it might long ago have possessed. Mr. Borrow is a capital pedestrian, and never man enjoyed a ramble through Wales more thoroughly than he. He walkedfrom Cerrig y Drudion to Bangor, a distance of thirty-four miles, in a day, and seemed to think nothing of it. Everywhere nearly he - was well received; but it is not every tour- ist who possesses the complete art of ingra- tiating himself like George Borrow. Once, happening to open a Welsh Bible in a house where he had stopped to halt, his eye fell on the words Gad i mi fyned trwy dy dir, Let me go through your country. (Numb. xx. 22.) I may say these words, said he to the woman of the house, Let me go through your country. No one will hin- der you, sir, for you seem a civil gentleman. True, his Welsh must have been a little out- landish, for he acquired it from books, and there is almost as great a difference between the Welsh of Taliesin and that of modern Welshmen, as there is between the Greek of Homer and that of the race who now live in the clime of the unforgotten brave. But he rarely got into a difficulty, and when be did he soon got out of it again. He never missed an opportunity of learning something about the manners and inclinations, the hab- its and the character of the people. He con- versed with every one, and we must say that he was very fortunate in meeting with con- versible and humorous persons. We think we see the fine Roman hand of Mr. Bor- row in some of the speeches of his friends; but, at the same time, we feel sure that the conversations are, in substance, faithfully recorded. Indeed, not the least of the merit of the work is its great truthfulness. We know some part of the country through which Mr. Borrow travelled, and we f~d that his inimitable descriptions bring before the mind the land in all its wild and picturesque beauty, and the people with their turbulent, uncertain, and irascible, yet kindly disposi- tions. Mr. Borrow never smoked in the course MR. BORROW~ S WILD WALES. of his travels; but he heartily enj~cd hi8 cup of ale; and sometimes he is rather hard on the teetotallers. Once he bought a paper of~ a tramp, which paper, he tells us, was stuffed with religious and anti-slavery cant, and merely wanted a little of the teetotal non- sense to be a perfect specimen of humbug. As to sherry, he thinks it a silly, sickly compound, the use of which will transform a nation, however bold and warlike by na- ture, into a race of sketchers, scribblers, and punsters, in fact, into what Englishmen are at the present day. This slashing vigor, is very characteristic of George Borrowhe ought to have been a Welshman, for he is very fond of giving knock-down blows. He likes the country and its language, and he is very hearty in his likes and dislikes. As it is, he has written the best book about Wales ever published. It would be easy, perhaps, to pick out faults; but the time spent in the process would be entirely misapplied, and a fair idea would not be given of the work. We have preferred to judge it as a whole, not caring to boggle and wrangle over minor de- fects in what is intrinsically good. In one of his volumes, Mr. Borrow alludes in rather a melancholy strain to the sadness which the thought brought him that he has undergone much change since his earlier years. It must be so, since life and nature are with the wise as with the foolish, We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds; and it is in the autumn that we delight most in recalling the spring. But the changes which moved this pleasantest of travellers have not extended to his capacity for enjoy- ment, to his healthy, vigorous nature, or to his power of amusing others. Not many writers could afford to begin a chapter like this: For dinner we had salmon and leg of mutton. Let the tourist who writes his yearly volume of superficiality and twaddle read George Borrow and envy him! It is half a pity that such a man cannot go walk- ing about forever, for the benefit of people who are not gifted with legs so stout and eyes so discerning. May it be long before the Romany Rye lays by his satchel and his staff, and ceases to interest and instruct the world with his narratives of travel! MODERN POLITICAL MEMOIRS. From The Quarterly Review. 1. The Journal and Correspondence of Wil- liam Lord Auckland. By the Right Hon. and Right Rev, the Bishop of Bath and Wells. Vols. III. and IV. 1862. 2. The Private Diary of Richard Duke of Buckingham and Chandos. In 3 Vols. 1862. THE class of memoirs to which our atten- tion will chiefly be directed in this article differs very widely from those which are known as illustrating the manners rather than the politics of French or German courts. This difference is but the reflection of an- other; of that which exists between two quite distinct modes of government; between par- liamentary government and closet govern- ment; between the mace of the House of Commons and the fan of the Duchess de Longueville. In French memoirs, politics and scandal, the jokes of the salons and the counsels of the Cabinet, are inextricably mixed up together, and reveal a political sys- tern in which the authority exercised under free institutions by men had been transferred to the art, the tact, and the accomplishments and his successor pursued their unwieldy loves and enjoyed their boorish romps in a style not seductive to English gentlemen. Politics were surrendered to Walpole; and the consequence was that, although there was plenty of immorality under those gracious sovereigns, yet the feminine element of court life had no longer that connection with pub- lic policy which once for a brief space it had possessed; and the resemblance to French manners in this respect grew less and less till it disappeared altogether with the acces- sion of George III. Thus in that witty and amusing style of memoir in which grave and gay are treated on the same level, in which drawing the sword against an enemy or throwing the handkerchief to a lady, treaties of peace or canons of taste, a fresh famine or a new play, are of equal importance, England is unques- tionably deficient. We have some such memoirs and letters, no doubt, though they are not equal to the French. Hamilton and Pepys and Walpole and Chesterfield and Sel- wyn and Hervey, to say nothing of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, Lady Suffolk, Ma- dame DArblay, and others, have written to a certain extent in that style. But these are nearly all that we have, and even these be- tray their native soil. There is, however, another class of memoirs more truly deserv- ing the title of political, in which English literature is absolutely without a rival: as in England alone are to be found the institu- tions under which they flourish. We mean the diaries, correspondence, and biographies of that long succession of eminent public men who have conducted our parliamentary system during the last hundred years. The study of Constitutional Government through the medium of these pages is like the con- templation of bees under a glass hive. We see the secret and intermittent processes by which great events have been matured. We see how curiously patriotism and selfishness, a sincere faith in principles and an obstinate love of poker, may be united in the same men. We see their busy movements to and fro, their mines and counter-mines; the dis of the female sex. If France was a despot- ism tempered by epigrams, it was the life of the salons which brought those epigrams to perfection; and the salons thus constituted a sort of social Parliament, which, though unable to stop the supplies or withhold the Mutiny Act, still possessed a formidable weapon ef offence in the power of making the Government ridiculous. England, as we need hardly say, has never had a Govern- ment of this description. The nearest ap- proach to it which she has ever seen was under the sway of Charles II., and accord- ingly the nearest approach to French memoirs which our literature possesses, is in the vol- umes of Pepys and Hamilton. Some of the characteristics of the reign of Charles II. re- appeared partially and in a very unattractive form under the two first Georges, and have served to impart a tinge of French color to the memoirs which describe their courts. But, fortunately for England, neither Wal- pole nor his royal master were men of refined taste. It would have bech hard for a mon- gust after failure, the elation after victory. arch like Charles II., or a minister like Lord We see the strangest inconsistencies and Bolingbroke, to resist the charms of those contradictions; and, not losing our faith in beautiful and sprightly girls who sparkle like excellence or greatness, we learn at the s~e diamonds in all the memoirs of that time. time to be more charitable and less credu- Their influence was but small. George I. bus. 217 MODERN POLITiCAL MEMOIRS.. In our examination of this class of memoirs, we will begin with the accession of George III., as the epoch at which the memoirs de- voted to court gossip and anecdote may be said in general terms to have been replaced by matter which is more purely political. The character of the memoir affords one suf- ficient reason for making that date our start- ing-point. But in the character of the pe- riod itself we shall find still stronger motives. In the first place, from 1716 to 1760 our parliamentary contests were, with one excep- tion, confined to our parliamentary parties, and unconnected with the powers of the crown. That exception was a war. When George II. heard of any fighting to be done, he pricked up his ears and required to have a hand in the business. But to all other questions he was comparatively indifferent. Excise Bills and Septennial Acts were noth- ing to him, and the Tory party, being left without a natural head, was reduced either to declamation against bribery and perpet- ual dictatorship, or to the declaration of opin- ions which mi~ht have brought the professor to the Tower. Through9ut the whole pe- riod, then, the battles of Parliament were fought over particular measures, or were mere scrambles for place between the vari- ous sections of the Whig party, which did not even profess to be separated from each other by any distinctions of principle. But with the accession of George III. a new po- litical element was at once introduced. The country seemed only to have~heen waiting for a sovereign who would assert his rights, to become the scene of a violent reaction. It had never been intended by the leaders of the Revolution of 1688 that Parliament should rule without the king. The object of that great change had been that the king should not rule without the Parliament. When the house of hanover was placed upon the throne as a further guarantee of these principles, the Whig party became the inev- itable depository of power. But they had gone too far. They had abused the trust committed to them; and now, when a king bad risen up to restore the balance of the constitution, the English nation would sup- port him. Thus, we may be sure, reasoned a large portion of the public in those days; for on no other hypothesis is the success of George III. intelligible. And now began a struggle hardly less important in principle than that which took place between Charles I. and his Parliament. Toryism had again become practical; it rallied round an actual living representative, to whom obedience was not treason. Tories either had, or had good reason to believe they had, the consti- tution on their side. The sovereign was young, popular, and bold; and, all things considered, the two armiesjoined battle upon far less unequal terms than at first a might suppose. Our two great political par- ties were now, therefore, for the first time after nearly eighty years drawn out against each other upon a perfectly distinct issue, upon a great constitutional question: not upon any mere measure, however momentous or interesting, but upon the method of gov- ernment itself. In the second place it is to be observed that the history of the reign of George III. has still to be written. Lord Stanhope brings us to the Peace of Versailles. But from 1783 downwards, we have no History that is qualified to rank as a classic. Mr. Massey will not in our judgment supply the want; though we desire to do full justice to the spirited style and generally useful character of the volumes which he has already pub- lished. There are obvious reasons, there- fore, for endeavoring to gua~e the extent and estimate the value of the materials which the futue historian will command: to ascer- tain how much of the rapidly accumulating mass of Political Memoirs is useful, and how much of it is not; and to classify the works in question according to the period of which they treat and the tone in which they are composed. One very marked impression which remains upon the mind after the study of any number of these memoirs, is that Tradition is gener- ally trustworthy. From the first William Pitt down to Sir Robert Peel, few statesmen emerge from the cross-examination to which their characters are submitted in these vol- umes either whiter or blacker than before. There are exceptions, but the conclusion is valuable because it confirms our faith in his- tory. We see that acquaintance with the private side of ~a public mans character, while it enables us to fill in particular details, leaves the broad outlines untouched. We are led to reflect how improbable it is that men of eminence, whose lives and actions have been exposed to the full light of public- 218 MODERN POLITICAL MEMOIRS. ity for some thirty or forty years, should be greatly misjudged by their contemporaries. The existence of political memoirs affoi~ds, no doubt, an excellent security against false- hood. Even an historian who is not very anxious for truth, will be checked by the knowledge that his misstatements can be confuted from the papers which are pretty certain to emerge, sooner or later, from old family repositories; and we think with Lord Hailes, that they who suppress such memoirs do all that in them lies to leave history in darkness. There is, however, thus much to be said, that a limited and partial study of these memoirs is worse than no study at all. An interested or one-sided writer may con- struct any conceivable case upon any ques- tion out of these abundant materials, with- out a chance of being confuted, except by one who knows them all. He who possesses that knowledge will be armed against such political representations as we too often find in the Liberal historians of the present day. These memoirs, if read aright, will throw great light upon various complicated pas- sages of our political and parliamentary history, and in many instances materially change our opinion of them. But we shall usually find that change to he one which tends rather to reconcile our previous esti- mate of the actors with facts which had per- plexed us, than to overthrow that previous estimate. On the other hand, it is to be re- marked that much more vigilance is neces- sary in scanning the accounts of transactions than in reading the characters of individuals. Writers or editors who are reluctant to libel persons, are yet apt to misrepresent events, in their anxiety to exhibit their own conduct or that of their friends in a favorable light; and leaving the reader to draw certain infer- ences for himself, they delude themselves into the belief that they h~ve avoided all personalities. Upon the whole, however, we repeat that it is events rather than persons which are affected by these publications. We have not, after the perusal of some forty works of this nature, changed our opinions of Lord Chatham, or the Duke of Bedford, or Lord Temple; of Mr. Pitt, Mr. Canning, Lord Grenville, Mr. Fox, or Mr. Ad4ington. But we have changed our opinion of, or rather perhaps gained a clearer insight into; certain phases of the Catholic question; cer- tain events of the war; some ministerial embarrassments, and certain transforma- tions of party. We gather, indeed, from this course of reading, that the boundaries of party have been observed much more laxly than some mod~rn politicians suppose. The facts which show ~this may be read in any ordinary his- tory; but all which draws attention to those facts we find in the political memoir. A casual reader of history would see that one ministry succeeded another, and that certain statesmen were in Cabinet, without thinking, perhaps, of inquiring if that is where he should expect to see them. But when a member of one party passed. over into the ranks of another, it was, of course, a fine theme for political correspondents and dia- rists. Yet, whatever the comments they provoke, we are startled to find how fre- quently and easily events of this nature oc- curred or were considered to be ripe for oc- currence. Although there was a very clear distinction between Whig and Tory on the one fundamental principle of the kings right to choose his o~vn ministers, yet individual statesmen passed backwards and forwards between the two rival camps, without pro- voking more or even so much disapproba- tion as such conduct would elicit now. Public opinion appears to have exercised in former days a very slight influence upon the calculations of statesmen. Sometimes, indeed, it poke out with sufficient plainness, as against the Excise Bill of Walpole and against the India Bill of Fox; but at other periods it remained comparatively sluggish, and then it seems to have been forgotten. Statesmen moved in a small circle, with their gaze invariably turned inwards, and seem to have judged of men and events by criteria of their own. But the opinion of the vulgar world not unfrequently set at defiance the predictions of the wisest statesmen. Noth- ing is more remarkable throughout these voluminous memoirs than the contrast which they present between the opinions of the initiated few and the actual issues of affairs. The downfall of ministers, for instance, is constantly predicted, because they were de- ficient in those qualities which at Whites and Brookss were held to be essential to successbrilliant eloquence, or great con- nections, or striking administrative talent. The moral support which a ministry derives from feeling itself in unison with the pop- 4 219 220 MODERN POLITICAL MEMOIRS. ular opinion of the day went for little. Not and the relations of a distinguished man are even the large majorities which these doomed prone not only to ascribe an undue impoz- governments regularly obtained in Parlia- tance to him and his actions,and there- ment seem to have affected this prejudice. fore to flood the press with needless and It led the Opposition into a confident way trivial matter,but also to adopt all his of talking, and has introduced into memoirs views, and defend all his fancies with little of the time assertions of ministerial weak- or no examination. Or if the work be con- ness, which, not being founded upon fact, fided to the hands of some professed author, are calculated to mislead us very much in he again may naturally be unwilling to dis- our estimate of particular transactions. please his patrons; while the chances are Such is one source of error peculiar to that neither the one nor the other possesses the political memoirs of this period, which that miante knowledge of our parliamentary is perhaps only to be detected by close study history which is required for the correction of their contents. Another is more obvious, or modification of ex parte statements. We mean that, unless edited with extreme When Lady Hester Stanhope was told of the care, the journals, letters, and miscellaneous publication of the Chatham Correspondence, remains of public men are sure to represent she observed at once that it would be certain so much of personal prepossession as greatly to mislead the world. Nobody, ~he said, to impair their value for historical purposes. was competent to edit political papers of that The first idea which occurs to the mind of era; for young men understood neither the any man interested in such subjects, on. see- old phraseology nor the old politics. Lady ing or hearing of a fresh issue of family Hester was probably in the riaht: for it is papers, is that now at length we shall have very difficult to tell at this distance of time the true history of some hitherto mysterious how much, or how little, certain phrases of transactions; that we shall be admitted be- the old school were intended to convey. hind the scenes, and see the actors in great The first batch of our memoirs which ad- events with their stage costume thrown mit of being marked off by themselves are aside. Well, we do see all this; butin pro- such as relate mainly to the earlier part of portion to the freedom with which transac- George the Thirds reign. With the first tions are discussed and motives acknowl- ministry of Mr. Pitt a new state of things edged in such documents, is the openness commenced; new ideas began to bud; new with which personal prejudices are indulged men appeared upon the public scene; and a and political enemies defamed. Thus what different class of public questions began to we gain on one side we are in danger of agitate Parliament. We may safely, there- losing on the other. We are certainly ad- fore, take the previous period as one com- mitted to disclosures which could never have plete within itself, with its own particular been made in Parliament; but we are also ideas, difficulties, and methods. Some of distracted by interruptions which greatly the memoirs which relate to it will, of obscure their moral lesson. The saints of course, run on into the next; and some old are said to have suffered much from the there are which carry us over the whole malignity of demons, who would interpose breadth of the reigns of the two last themselves between the pages& of a good Georges. But this does not affect the book and the eyes of the devout reader, principle of division we have adopted; and leading away his thoughts to unholy objects, it will generally be found that such memoirs and making the words of truth and wisdom are not equally useful for both the earlier unintelligible. The reader of political me- and the latter period. One exception, how- moirs is tormented in the same fashion by ever, there is, and that is in that unbroken the demons of spite and partiality, which flit series of family papers which preserve to us before his eyes like bats, as be labors to ex- the memory of the Grenvilles. Stretching tract the truth from some long and confiden- all the way from the year 1742 to the last tial narrative. The value, therefore, of a accession of Lord Derby to power, they are really honest and competent editor for works equally interesting and equally important at of this description may be easily understood. any point of time as far as 1830. But the But it seems very difficult to procure one. Diaries and Correspondence of Lord Malmes- The task is often undertaken by relations; bury, which rank next in point of duration MODERN POLITICAL MEMOIRS. to the Grenville series, do not throw much light upon domestic politics earlier than the French Revolution. From 1767 to 1787 Lord Malmesbury was almost constantly abroad. From 1793 to 1796 he was abroad again; and it was only during the latter years of his life, down to 1812, that he was much involved with the political parties of the time. But in 1792 and the early part of 1793 he was intimately concerned in those private negotiations which preceded the great Whig secession; and we shall notice in its proper place the highly interesting ac- count which he has left us of that transac- tion. On foreign affairs, of course, he is throughout a valuable authority. Running nearly parallel with the Malmesbury Papers is the Diary and Corruspondeace of Lord Cornwallis. The former begin in 1767, and terminate in 1808. The latter extend from 17761805; and, like Lord Malmesburys, their chief value for our present purpose de- pends upon their later portions. During the earlier part of his career Lord Cornwal- lis was in America. From 1786 to 1794 he was in India. And though, of course, full of very interesting matter, the papers which relate to these periods do not afford so much material for illustrating the peculiar charac- teristics of political memoirs as those which relate wholly to domestic politics. The Cor- respondence of Burke (1744 to 1797) is sin- gularly barren of parliamentary topics till after the rise of Mr. Pitt. Both the Memo- rials and Correspondence of Fox and the Life of Fox, the one edited and the other written by Earl Russell, resemble in this respect the Correspondence of Burke. They are, indeed, full of the Coalition of 1783, on which Burke, strange to say, is silent; but we find nothing in them to help us in under- standing those earlier intrigues of George the Thirds reign, the intricacy of which is sufficient to daunt the most inquisitive. Nevertheless, as Fox was thirteen years in Parliament during the first period, his Cor- respondence must not be forgotten in enu- merating the works which relate to it. He entered Parliament, in fact, just as that se- ries of wretched squabbles which began with the ministry of Lord Bute had been finally concluded by the promotion of Lord North to the Treas~ury, during whose long admin- istration