Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 10, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 434 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK9283-0010 /moa/putn/putn0010/

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

Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 10, Note on Digital Production 0010 000
Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 10, Note on Digital Production A-B

Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 10, Issue 55 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 434 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABK9283-0010 /moa/putn/putn0010/

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

Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 10, Issue 55 Emerson's magazine and Putnam's monthly G.P. Putnam & co. New York July 1857 0010 055
A Season at the White Mountains 1-22

PUTNAMS IYIONTIILY. ~ 1a~a~htc of ~iteratnrc, ~cicncc, aii~ ~rt. VOL. X.JULY, 1857.NO. LV. THE casual visitor, who whirls to and over the White Hills of New Hampshire, is amazed and gratified with the solid grandeur and the varied beauty of the scenes through which he may be borne, even with the hot haste of mod- VOL. x.I em traveling facilities, but there are few who avail themselves of the example and advice of Webster, to select a tem- porary home beneath the broad shadows of these mountains, and to roam each day over and among them until they become theirs. Go thither, says the state~man, prepared to stay, to study, to feel them. These old settlers are tardy in forming intimate acquaintanceships. Their externals they give to the eye in a moment, upon a clear day; but their true charactertheir occasional moods of superior majesty all that makes them a real refreshment, a force, a joy for the rest of your yearsthey show only to the calmer eyeonly to him who waits sufficiently long to unthink his city habits, and bide their time. 2 A Season at the White Mountains. [July, Expend the same money at some one spot, that might otherwise be spread over the lengthened journey; take the proper times for driving out to examine and enjoy the best positions; and the mountains will certainly come to you- which, it is averred, they declined to do for Mahomet. Favorably impressed with the sug- gestion, and with the intention of adopting the spirit of this apparently very appropriate counsel, our little family-party started upon a summer tour of the White Mountains, late in a lovely June. Our traveling cortfge and accompa- niments consisted of two gentlemen, a comfortable light carriage, a pair of Morgan bays, a brace of Mantons, three of Conroys choicest trout rods and gear, a sketch-book, two servants, nine huge trunks, as many band-boxes (confound them!), two hampers of St. Perey, andthree ladies. After leaving the pretty city of Port- land. Me., the size of the villages north- ward perceptibly grows smaller, and the popuintion more sparse, as you proceed towards Island Pondthe town of Gor- ham, N. H., being the point, on the way thither, at which pleasure-seekers do mostly congregate in the summer sea- son, and whence the pilgrim on his jour- ney to Mounts Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Moriab, commences his toilsome but romantic and exhilarating march upward. The present town of Gorham, which, until within a few years, formed a part of Shelburne, lies to the north of the base of the principal eminences known generally as the White Mountains, and is but a rude village at this time, though it was incorporated some twenty years since. The establishment of the railroad (running through this town di- rectly to Montreal) has had the effect of building it up, somewhat; though its chief features, now, axe the Alpine House, a fine hotel belonging to the rail- way company, a d~p6t near by, and the few cottage dwellings around, occupied principally by persons connected with the road, in that neighborhood. Within a 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains 3 few years, great numbers of travel- ers select this route to the inoun- tains; and, in the vicinity of Gor- hamthat is to say, within easy carriage-drives~ over very excellent roadsare located some of the lovcliest spots in that lovely coun- try surrounding the granite mon- archs of northern New England. Mount Moriah lies upon the edge of Shelburnethe town adjoining Gorhamand, from which, the lat- ter-named place is but a set-off. Near the centre of Shelburne, and within pleasant driving distance of the Alpine, may be seen a curi- ous precipice, or ledge of rock, rising from its base to a height of some seventy feetin an angle of fifty degreescalled Moses Ledge. It is told that this cliff received its name from the fact that, during an early survey of the town, the authorities offered to be- stow the best lot of land in the pre- cinct to tbe man who could readily climb to the top of this rock. A person by the name of Moses Ingalls removed his boots, and scrambled up to the crown of the ledge, amid the cheers of the sur- veying partyand hence its cog- nomnen. A drive over a very fair road to the northwest, from the Alpine, dis- tant some seven miles, brings you to another locality of much interestBer- lin Falls. This cbarming spot is now resorted to by hosts of travelers, who cannot fail to admire the wild and magnificent scenery which surrounds this madly- driven torrent, as it rushes, with tre- mendous force, through the gulch that forms it~ craggy, bouldered bed. It is called Berlin Fallsbut the writer con- siders this a misnomer. The sketch here presented is an ac- curate view, taken in the month of July, at a point below the bridge which has been thrown across the torrent. From a distance nbove the bridge, the river comes tumbling down, over a rugged bed of huge rocks, the descent, for se- veral rods, being sharp and rapid; but not presenting what is generally under- stood by the abrupt term of a fall of water, Rapids, or torrent, would de- cidedly be more appropriate to this locality, although the fall of the waters tor a distance of some hundred rods in the immediate vicinity of the bridge is very considerable, yet comparatively gradual. And still, but few spots in the whole tour of the White Mountain region strikes the beholder with deeper awe than this wonderful leaping of flood over its cragged bed of boulders, clefts, and time-worn rocks. Returning by the carriage road from Berlin Falls, or Berlin cataract (as the reader pleases), we passed, or halted to examine, many beautiful streams that gushed from the mountain ridges, along the right or left, and saw three or four miniature cascades that the ladies greatly admired. As we turned an angle in the road, we came in view of the river again~ a mile or more below the bridge. The current set rapidly around this point, and one of the young ladies suddenly descried a paddle whirliiig in the eddy, near the shore. This little incident suggested inquiry among our fair com- panions, and our guidean old mount- aineerrelated the following, in reply to the question, where this isolated oar could have come from: 4 A Season at the White Mountains. I carnt say, mum, whar that oar rignated; but I can tell you bout an- other that was found here, in the Scog- gin; and how it came round that a beau- tiful young lady tempted to do a mans work, andand missed of it, mum. 0, delightful ! responded the ladies, instanter. Pray, lets have the story. DoMr. Guide. Well, mum; it was all for love So much the better, rejoined the ladies. So much the wuss, mum, I think, for her, said the guide, gravely. But, howsever, you shall hear. It was on one o them awful nights that we have here in the mountains, sometimes; dark, and stormy, and fear- ful to witnessto say nothing of beia caught out in itthat this young woman undertook to run away from her fathers house, and lope with a Canadian that her parents didnt fancy. He was on the other side of this riverjest below the fallswaiting for her. They had ranged to meet there, privately, on this particular night, you seeand they hadnt calclated on any postponement on account o the weather, you undstand. She was to cross over, in her fathers boat, and he had horses ready on tother sidejust yonder, for instancefor both of them; by wich means they expected to escape, and ar- terwards were to be married. Well; he came, and she came. He lit a signal on tother side of the river. As I told you before, it was a mans workyes, mum, and moreto paddle a boat cross the roaria stream that night, amidst the white caps. But, you see, mum, the young woman wus in love; and so she wus bound to resk it. She saw the fire-light, and, as her heart jumped into her beautiful throat, she jumped into the canoe-boat, and pushed out for the opposite shore, where her Canadian lover waited her. A brave girl she was, too ! ex- claimed the ladies. Yes, mum; but disobedent, you see. Her father was a keen old mount- aineer, and lovd her. Well, he kep a sharp watch over her movements, and suddenly missed her .that night. He spected that somethin was a goin on, and he happened to run out to the river cause hed got an idee runnin in his head that his daughter might commit suicide, you see; cause shed been wild-like, and unmanageable, for some [July timeand the first thing he see was the gal in the boat out on the river ! And what did he do ? anxiously inquired the company of listeners. ~Do? Wy he yelled to her to come back, o course. But she looked over to tother side, and the other fellow told her to come acrossto have courage and all that sort o thing. But, she was a poor cretur, any how, continued the guide, sympathetically, she couldnt do nither one thing or tother! Her boat whirled round nn roundveered off into the mad current-shot down stream with the rush of watersstruck a boulderand went over and over before the wind and storm ! And what became of the young lady ? Drowned, of course drowned, mum ; said the guide softly. Next day, in one of the eddies, just like this, the paddle was found, and the boat was got five miles below here, badly stove up. The young woman was never heerd of agin. It was a awful storm, mum certain ! A sigh escaped the lady-listeners to this pathetic tale of the Andros- coggin, as the party entered the car- riage once more, and turned toward the Alpine House. A week after our arrival at Gorham, Mr. Greene proposed that our fishing- gear should be brought into requisition; and after divers and sundry unsuccessful efforts, on the part of this gentleman, to show us how to kill trout, we chanced one morning to meet with Tom Barnett, a fishermaa of the old school,, who had been bred at the mountains, and who knew where the speckled dain- ties dweltny, every spring and brook and hummock they inhabitedthrough- out the entire trouting country. Tom is a crude specimen of the genus homo, but a good-hearted, common-sense fellow, whom everybody learns to like. We chanced upon him as he returned from a fishing trip, with a noble string of sparklers in his hands, and we at once inquired where he obtained them. And he replied, good-naturedly, over there. Over there might seem to Tom Barnett very clear and intelligible; but, to Mr. Greene, the locality named was altogether unsatisfactory, and the term appeared very inexpressive! How long have you been out ? in- sisted Mr. Greene. 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. 5 Three days, said Tom. Three days ! exclaimed Mr. G. How far away ? I inquired. Two-and-twenty miles, rejoined Tom. Capital sport, too. Sixty-five troutweigh five-and-forty pouns. One days fishingone day out, and one back. Th~i~utts of Toms excursion were quickly disposed of, at the hotel, and Mr. Greene directly entered into negoti- ations with the roughly-attired stranger, in reference to another trip. Tom Barnett sported a hat that, at some remotely anterior period, might have been of beaver, but most probably it was a Kossuth, originally. It had long since seen its best daysthough 4 Tom declared that it was a most excellent arrangement stillinasmuch as all the water that came in through its dilapi- dated top ran off through the long-time parted seams that gaped at the rim. His coat (originally a patetot) was a pelter (so he called it) of English pilot cloth, and evidently had weathered many a harsh and driving storm, with good-natured Tom inside of it. His boots were of heavy cows bide, his pants of leather, his shirt of buck-skin. His beard and hair were worn au naturel, and covered his face almost entirely. He carried an old hog-skin portmanteau, upon all his excursions; and a large double-barreled pistol in his girdleto defend himself against bears and other varmint, as he wandered aboutcom- pleted the costume of this original. Toms fishing-rod was always cut from the nearest sapling upon the ground. For bait, he usually shot a partridge en route to his favorite pond or stream. His manner was rude, and his tout ensembte forbidding to strangers, yet his disposition was kindly in the extreme; and, though he knew little of the courtesies of civilized life, he was, certainly, in his own way, a trumpas brave as a lion, and as hardy and re- liable as he was brave. Tom had been reared in the mountain forests. Stalwart in form, and possessed of an iron will, as well as si- news, he felt himself, single handed, a match for the biggest bar in Hampshire, and feared neither hard- ship, weather, beast, nor human. My youthful friend, Mr. Greene, as has been hinted, was resolved upon a fishing excursion. He listened to Tom Barnetts stories of the fabulous numbers of trout he had killed at dif- ferent times, and arranged ~ with the veteran angler to - accompany him, next day, upon a little jaunt into the forest a pleasant walk, as Tom termed the prospective trip where the sport would be ex- tronnery fine. When Mr. G. made his appearance upon the hotel piazza, the next morning, he certainly was a model of a trouter. His de- licate silver-tipt Conroy rod was of tIe latest pattern; his snugly fitting fishing-frock was a triumph; his pants, and boots, and gauntlets were uniin- peachable; his chapeau sat light and jauntily upon his handsome forehead; his creel was ample in length and breadth; his imfrriale was faultless; and, altogether, he looked remarkably 6 A Season at the White Mountains. [July, fume, and well put up. Indeed, Tom Barnett himself, when he saw him in readiness to start, with a curl on his lip pronounced him a natral cur os- ity. The fishing-party, of three, took the up-train of cnrs, at nine A.M., nnd, nfter a ride of some fourteen miles, ~vere set down by the roadside. Tom, with his portmanteau and double-barreled pistol; Mr. Greene, with his fashionable traps and regimentals ; and his friend, with a well-filled cigar-case, matches, and sketch-hook. Crossing a narrow strip of meadow, Tom plunged at once into the forest beyondflanked by his fa- vorite dogand bade us follow. The thick underbrush and brinrs we encountered at every step, rendered our passage exceedingly difficult, though Tom thrust his way along with such strides as compelled him, at every turn, to halt for us to come up. Greenes twenty-dollar rod had been ruined, at the outset, by contact with the scraggy bushes through which we had been forced, and he panted and blowed like an over-driven horse, at the end of the first half mile. How far is it, Tom? he asked, out of breath. How fur is what ? re- joined Tom. How far to the pond ? Seven mile, replied Burnett. Come along. At the end of the third mile, which we made after two hours hard scrabbling, and wearisome toil with hands and feet, Mr. Greene avowed his utter in ability to proceed further, and sunk do u-n, disheartened and ab- solutely used up with his exertions. The dense mass of brush and bushes that were here matted together, and which completely covered the ground the whole distance we traveled, rendered the walking exceedingly labori- ous, not to speak of the in- cessant entanglement to which our limbs were sub- jected, at every other mo- meat, and out of which we were obliged to draw our feet by main strength, at times. The atmosphere was heated, too, the weather being quite too warm for comfort, without exertion; and the small trees and num- berless saplings were so closely and intimately interwoven one with another that, but for the fact that Barnett led and beat down the way for us, to a considerable extent, we should have found it impossible to proceed at all. Occasionally, the trunk of some huge tree, that had fallen in the forest, would obstruct the passage obstinately; and, in one instance, Mr. Greene well nigh yielded up the ghost as he met with, and became entangled beside, a mon- strous log, which he finally crossed, after the severest struggle, amid the painful scarifying of his face and limbs, and the destruction of his coat and hat and nether garments. I hallooed for Tom, who was con- siderably in advance of us, who put about and returned. Anything happened ? he asked, as he reached the spot where I was resting. Mr. Greene having come up, now animadverted rather fervently against scrub-forests in general, and in reference 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. 7 to this one in particular, and informed Mr. Barnett that he could proceed no further; hut requested to be shown out of that infernal entanglement forthwith. Tom smiled, uttered some words of encouragement, averred that there were a million trout within three miles dis- tance, that this sort of traveling was mere fun, and we at length moved slowly forward once more. We proceeded sluggishly, through the tangled hriars and dense woods, another mile, when we were forced to halt againand recalling our guide, we sat down to rest a second timeMr. Greene protesting against this sort of fishing-excursion in most emphatic language, and positively declaring that on no consideration whatever could he now he dissuaded from taking the hack track, as soon as he was able to walk. Its near five mile to the rail, said rrom Barnett, quietly, an its ony two an a half to the fishing-ground, young gentleman. Better go forard, after youve rested a wile-hadnt you? Besides, it 11 he night afore we git there, sartn. An we must git out o these woods, sure, afore its dark. Why ? exclaimed Mr. Greene, suddenly. iOh,nothin, said Tom. Nothin in particlar. But sometimes theres hars round, after dark. Not here, Tom, said Greene, earn- estly. No, not here specially, hut in the woods, you know. Thars whar the bars live genally. But you are not afraid of bears, 8 A Season at the White Mountains. [July, Tom, are you? insisted Mr. Greene, feelingly. No, I am not. But they are on- comfortable customers to young gentle- men who aint quainted with their ways, you see. This kind of inuendo had the desired effect, and Tom had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Greene upon his taps once more, an hour later. We trudged on through the compact woods again, and, some time before sunset, the trout- ing ground hove in sight, to the north of onr starting point. Here we ar, boys ! cried Tom, exultingly; an now for a sit-down. Strike a light; lets have a fire at the clearing yonder, and then a pipe nnd a quiet snooze till daybreak. All this was accomplished in a brief space of timethat is., the light, the who accompanied us from Gorham, was heard in the thicket near by, yelling most frantically. Tom sprang to his feet in an instant, suspecting what might be the cause of the sudden disturbance; and, examining the cones of his pistol hastily, plunged aside into the wood. It seemed the work of but a single moment of time. Tom made for the spot where the dog was barking so furi- ously, and there he found Pompey, yell- ing at a bear, that stood wedged stern- wise between the boll of a large prostrate tree and a huge rock, which formed an angle, and into which the beast had backed away when the dog discovered him. As Tom reached the side of the fallen tree-trunk, pistol in hand, he saw the condition of affairs, and, with- out an instants hesitation, he let fly iii ~, uuu uu~ pipo uemg quickly got readyand we were just about to commence the quiet sit-down, when th4 dog Pompey, who followed Barnett in many a rou~ h ramble before, and A Season at the White Mountains. ward and delivered the contents of the second barrel promptly into the brutes right ear, thus finishing his business effectually, just as Mr. Greene and his companion reached the scene of the rencontretho former demanding voci- ferously, but nervously, Whats the row, Barnett? as they came up. Upon eeing a very respect ble sized bear at rPom~s feet, in its final death struggles, r. G. was unfeignedly astonished, and at once declared that the prospect for a quiet night en bivouac was, in his opinion, a decidedly dubious proposi- tion. The carcass of this bear weighed full two hundred pounds. Barnett proceed- ed to cut the monsters throat immedi- ately, and subsequently secured his skin and claws, which vas all the weight he could carry home conveniently. Then, having quieted Mr. Greene with the assurance that the lightning didnt often strike twice in the same spot, and that it was quite as uncommon an oc- currence to find two bears in one place on the same night, we all returned to the edge of the little lake, which was destined to be the scene of our pise - tori~ 1 effort. on the morrow, and replen- ished our fire just as the suns final glimmer was paling away beyond the rose-tipt crowns of the distant western hills. The evening w& not cold, but a chill was on the air, such as we were unused to in Julyfor it had now got to be near the Pourthnnd we had origin- ally determined to pass the anniversary of American independence upon the top of Mount Washington, if possible. The atmosphere was clear, however, and dry, 1857.] 9 10 A Season at the White Mountains. [July, and in our location there was no wind stirring. Notwithstanding this, the warmth and the light of our camp-fire were both acceptable to our bodily com- fort, and cheerful to our spirits; and, whatever xvere Mr. Greenes other short- comings, on this occasion he is entitled to the credit of having kept up a most excellent fire, an incessant burning, bril- liant and glowing, from sunset to day- break. As soon as it was thoroughly dark, we found ourselves in front of the cheering blaze, each enjoying his own thoughts, and thankful for the oppor- tunity to rest and recuperate a little, preparatory to the succeeding days business. Torn Barnett busied himself with roasting a slice of bear-steak, artistic- ally cut from the haunch of the recently slaughtered Bruin. This delectable fit- bit was selected from the upper round of the haunch, and was cut about an inch and a half in thickness. Thrust- a white-oak sapling through its edge, Tom squatted before the bright fire, and roasted his precious morsel to a turn. The unctuous juices spirted in the blaze, and Pompey watched proceedings with interest and an anxious eye. The dog had eaten nothing since morning. His master and companions had fared much better than this. The artist, seated upon a stone near by, enjoyed a whiff at Barnetts pipe during the process of cooking supper while Mr. Greene, disconsolate and greatly fatigued, indulged in another Havana, as he sat moodily gazing alter- nately into the camp-fire, or out upon the darkness, calculating the chances of being devoured by bears before morn- ing, perhaps, or dying with over exer- tion in prospective. We gathered around the savory meal, at length, and did amplejustice to the sup- per provided so acceptably by our admir- able cuisine de montagne. Tom gorged himself. I say it, with no disposition to defame that worthy voyageur, but if he eat an ounce, he devoured fully two pounds of that bearthe gourmand! And, ten minutes afterward, he lay at full length, with his huge cow-hides to the fire, snoring like a Dutch trooper. The spot chosen by our piscatorial conductor for the next days sport was called Round Ponda local name, onlydistant about twenty-one miles from Gorham Centre. It was one of the loveliest little lakes imaginable, and proved to be well stocked with fine large troutmuch larger, in the average, than any that are obtained in the frequented mountain streams. We returned to our camp-ground at three oclock. with about eighty-five fish, seven out of every ten of which were taken by Torn Barnett, at any rate. I hastily made the following sketch of Round Pond and its pretty vicinity. Why it was called round J did not learn, as its only rotundity existed in the semi-circular pool that was formed at the foot of the little torrent which gushed from the hills beyond it, and emptied its sparkling waters into the basin from which our fish were taken. rrhe lake itself covered a consider- able expans~, and was fringed with masses of birch, alder, and scrub-oaks, peculiar to that region. Numerous well-holes of considerable depth were accessible from the margin of the pond, in whose clear and cool waters immense numbers of trout were secret- edsome of them, Tom said, of extra- ordinary size. The pond is located in the very heart of the forest, and is but little visited except by those well ac- quainted with the country there. A sojourn of four-and-twenty hours upon its banksalthough we secured a good- ly quantity of superb trout meantime did not so prepossess me in its favor, however, that I shall be ambitious of another similar pleasure jauntas rfom called itto the spot which will certainly live green in the memory of my companion and myself for a long season to come. We struck our tent at four, and pressed our way through the woods to the southwestward. Weary and worn out with his two days exertion, Mr. Greene declared that the excursion was any- thing but funny ; and, if ever he were again deluddd into the attempt to follow Tom Barnett upon a similar trip, he might write him down an ass, and he would enter into contract not to resent or deny the imputation By the time we had got through the last stretch of woodswhich embraced a mile of the vilest of briery underwood and tangled scrubsMr. Greene was a mass of shreds and tatters. With a badly crushed hat, and broken spirits, he emerged from the forest. His coat and pants were nearly torn from his body, his creel was shattered, his boots 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. 11 were broken from the soles, and alto- gether he was especially woe-begone, and generally wrecked. You call this sportdo you, Mr. Barnett I said Greene, at last, sulkily. Capitle ! said Tom, holding up his bear-skin, and pointing to his trout capitle, to be sure. Dont you 1 No, sir, responded Mr. Greene, firmly. Its an infernal imposition, sir. And when you catch me venturing upon a similar undertaking, Mr. Barnett just tell me of itthats all! We reached the hotel, at length, in safety, however, and Mr. Greenes pas- sion for trout-fishing was satiated for the present. We heard nothing further from him in reference to his qualifica- tions (or his exploits) with the rod! Having tarried at and enjoyed the hospitalities oE the Alpine a sufficient length of time to recover from the effects of our recent adven- tures, we started one fine clear early in July, for the u~en seven miles distant- another spacious hotel located in Peabody valley, near the base of Mounts Adams and Jefferson, and whence parties ascend Mount Washington, who approach from the northerly side. This house is built upon what was formerly known as Bellows Clearinga gentleman by that name, from Vermont, having been the pioneer there. The present hotel is of ample dimensions, modern in style, and is well conducted. From the balcony of the Glen house may be had a superior view of two of the three highest peaks of the White Mountain rangeMount Adams and Mount Jefferson standing in front of the house, in all their sombre grandeur; the one conical, in a measure, and the other of an oblong rotundity, at the apex. Far away beyond, to the left of these, and towering to the skies, looms up Mount Washingtunthe hoary-headed patriarch of the group, whose bald and storm-beaten crown is elevated more 12 A Season at the JVhite Mountains. [July than six thousand feet above the Atlan- tics level Having pieengaged horses for the convenienoc of oni own party, before leaving the Alpine House (with which to ascend the mountain), we were greatly at our ease upoa this somewhat import- ant point before arriving at the Glenmy agreeable traveling companion, Mr. Greene, consoling himself and us frequently, en route, with the assurance that, at all events, we should be well mounted. I have been there, re- marked Mr. Greene, com- placently. Indeed ? exclaimed Miss Georgette, I am so glad, dear Mr. Greene; and you are always so thought- ful, too. But, GreeneI sug- gested, with some surprise, this is news. I thought you were a stranger in this region. In general terms, said my friend. I spoke in a general way, only. I have traveled, in my day, you know. Thea you havent been there? I insisted, inquir- ingly. No, sAd Greene. That is, not exactly there. But I have bin there, in the common accept~ tion of this term, nevertheles ~, persisted Mr. Greene. ~~rrhe ~entiment i. a vulgarism, Mr. 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. 13 Greene, I added. And, though you may have traveled, you have yet a good deal to learn. Yes, I see, continued my friend, coolly. At this point in the conversation, we reached the Glen House stables, where we ascertained, a few minutes subse- quently, that parties to the number of over forty-five had accomplished exact- ly what the enterprising Mr. Greene had done, but some time in advance of him, however. The agreeable feature, there- fore, in this preparatory arrangement, (which had been so confidently and so dexterously effected by my friend) was that, in our case, the animals thus bespoken by our accomplished cice- rone were the very last that were en- gaged. Our party, with Mr. Greene at its head, were in consequence supplied, without delay, with Hobsons choice. Mr. Greene had been there, perhaps, but not in this precise spot Immediately on leaving the carriage, Greene (who had travel~d, in his time) made himself agreeable among the ost- lers and guides congregated there, and who were awaiting the arrival of our party at the Glen ; it being desirable, ordinarily, that as many visitors as is convenient may ascend the mountain together. Mr. Greene, having distribut- ed, with unsparing hand, among the crowd, the fees which he contended was one of the first of considerations with traveled persons, learned imme- diately after this performance, that, at least in the present instance, it was an act of supererogation; for there were but five miserable hacks left in the sta- bles for the accommodation of our party! Ony five left, said the guide, politely. How very precise ! remarked Mr. Greene. Very, was the response. Allers jess so, sir. Five pussonsfive orses. Yes, I see. Exactly five horses here. continued Greene, calculating- ly. Five times four are twenty. That is to say, ten pairs of legs. Five ani- malsfive persons. Yes, sir, said the guide, an were all readyfu please, sir. 0, yesI see, I see, continued Mr. Greene. You couldnt, Mike I think you said your name is Michael, added Greene, persuasively, as he thrust another coin into the guides hand, you couldnt contrive to manage to exchangethat is to say, provide us with five animals a shade better, that is, different from theseeh? could you Mike ? Couldnt, possibly, responded Mike, as he quietly thrust the coin into his watch-fob. All gonean besides, sir, these is the best in the stables. Last allers best, sir. Mr. Greene scanned the poor jaded ponies, and exclaimed, half-unconsci- ously, if these are the best, heaven help the others ! Ready, sir? inquired Mike, a mo- ment afterwards, ladies all mounted, and gone on, sir. Bless me! You dont say so, eja- culated Greene. The signal was at length given for the march, and the party moved slowly away in a line, single file ; and crossing the river, a few rods below the front of the Glen House, the leading guide (at the head of his motley bat- talion) turned up the roadway, and commenced the ascent to Mount Wash- ington. Mr. Greene stood beside his sorry nag, in readiness to mount, but evident- ly a little shy and suspicious either of his beast, or of his own horsemanship. Ave a care ! suggested Mike, kind- ly to him, as he placed his foot in the stirrup. Shes a good un, but shes apt to run backards a leetle, at fust. You ken ride, carnt you ? This home-thrust, at my pleasant friends accomplishments as an eques- trian, was rather ill-advised; for, if there were any one thing in Mr. Greenes traveled experience upon which he prided himself more especially than another, it was that he could ride well. 0, yesI see, I see. Thank you. Capital seat, capital, said Mr. Greene, bravely. Never betternever ! he continued throwing his right limb gal- lantly over the saddle, and jerking him- self upon the unruly creatures back, briskly. But at the instant he performed this graceful feat in mounting, his erratic pony, sulking, sprang violently back- wards, and by the retrograde movement brought the nose and chin of Mr. Greene very suddenly and unceremoni- ously between the brutes ears, at the same time knocking his hat from his head, uncivilly. 14 A Season at the White Mountains. [July, Bless me ! exclaimed Mr. Greene, greatly disconcerted, but quickly re- gaining his seat in the saddle, Bless mewhat a horse ! Best orse in the crowd, sir, insisted Mike, coming to the rescue, and seizing the animal by the head, with an emphatic whoa ! ThereMichael, dont chafe her, exclaimed Mr. Greene, soothingly dont! There - thats better. Hold on to her now, a moment, continued Greene, putting another coin into the guides hand. Dont let her run back again, Mike. No, sir Nodont ; repeated Mr. Greene. Then turning to the crowd who remained be- hind at the hotel, and who had enjoyed his trifling discomfiture vastly, he resumed his castor with the remark that he deem- ed it but civil to uncover in the presence of so many fair ladies, at starting ; and, followed by three hearty cheers, he forced his unwilling Rosinaate into a sharp gallop down the valley, to the mountain road, overtaking the party as it disappeared from view of the company at the Glen. Your party winds along, in Indian fileone horse behind the other through the varying scenes of wild and natural beauty which crowd upon the view at every turn, and you cannot cease to admire, to ex- claim, to wonder, or to praise, as you pass slug - - gishly on to- wards the peak. Surrounded on both sides, at first, by the forest, you shortly find your way flanked by trees of a lesser magnitude, but thickly set; and soon after, the 77~~ jr // 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. 15 stunted growth of savins and scrub-oak appear; then you encounter patches of aged and grim dwarfs, now blasted and torn by the lightnings, now uprooted by the mountain storms, and laid prostrate in your path, or by the sides of the road; now appear clumps of cedar and other hardy evergreens, all withered and ap- parently sapless, as you get higher up the mountain side, where the size of the trees is now reduced to the merest shrub; and soon all sign of vegetation ceases. Now you encounter a sharp hill for several rodsnow a ragged knoll, and now a gulch, through which the spring rains and melting snows have been tear- ing for weeks, perhaps, and at sight of which even your well-bred donkey starts, or bolts, or halts outright; now, a lively spring or miniature torrent gushes madly out from some rocky fis- sure at the way-side, and your jaded beast thrusts his head into its cool waters with a will. Now you meet a chasm in your way, over which your dull nag leaps with the agility of a lame cow, causing your hair to stand oa end at your awkward escape from a moment- arily anticipated breaking of the neck! And now, rollicking and shouting with the ladiesheaven bless them, how ad- mir~bly well they endure the fatinues of this journey !and still moving for- ward slowly, measuredly, but surely, upon the backs of those sullen, dogged, but faithful ponies, you straggle up upuptowards the summit. You leave behind you the birches and the maples, the beech-trees and the firs, the few hemlocks and the fewer white-pines, the aspen-poplars and the mountain-ash, the spruce bushes and the savins, the scrubs and the dwarfs and now, only a few sparsely scattered plants, and lichens, and mosses, greet the eye for a mile or more, as you still ascend. The atmosphere is perceptibly colder, and the cumbersome coats and shawls, which the guide insisted you should take with you at starting, you find of great service. As you proceed, the fir bushes and stinted shrubs grow fewer and further between, and are now seen only in the sheltered crevices and hol- lows of the rocks. A little grass is then met with, along the margin of the springy spots, and finally the brown moss, even, refuses to show itself on the sides of your pathway. Some five miles distant from the bed of the valley stands Bald Ledgethe wildest and most outre of all the wild scenes to be witnessed upon the moun- tains. At an elevation of near five thousand feet above the oceans level, it is a rocky, barren spot, over which you pass in reaching the Summit House, and from which, in a clear hour, you have a surpiisingly interesting view of the hills and valleys below you. From 16 A Season at the White Mountains. [July, 7 - the front of the Glen House, when the atmosphere is unobstructed, you catch a glimpse of the trail of travelers as it passes around a bluff just beyond its plaza, and from this height, en passant, you may turn in the saddle and obtain a charming view of the mountains al- ready passed, and of the scenery far down in the valley below. The line of travelers can thus be seen from below only for a moment; but against a clear sky they are very distinctly defined; and signals are here exchanged between those who are bound up, and who may have left friends at the public-house in the glenthe latter, from the hotel piazza, being on the lookout for their companions, with the telescope. Bald Ledge itself is an uncharit- able, cheerless, barren mass of broken rockswell named. It is flanked upon the right by a miserable death-stricken forest of tall, gnarled stumps, standing thickly together, from which the leaves and bark has been stript, evidently, for years, and which, by the action of the extreme cold weather and storms there, have become bleached to a chalky white- ness, from the roots to the highest branches. The trees are shapeless or, rather, of every conceivable shape into which the pitiless winters of that region, aided by the thousand storms that have spent their fury around, could possibly contort them; and there they stand, along the sharp brink of the ledge, upright or embracing a neigh- bor, twisted and shattered, isolated or in clumpsbut entirely whiteroot, boll, and branch, throughout the whole for- est; like so many blanched and blasted ghosts, halting there with outstretched arms and scrawny fingers, to fright one from his propriety as he is compelled to pass by this desolate region. Various theories are current, account,. 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. ing for the curious appearance of this desolated forest. Our guide informed us that the trees had been burnedthe woods there having been fired by light- ning, many years sinceand that the bark being thus crisped, the subsequent cold winters and storms had beaten off the outer coating of the bolls and branches, and they had subsequently bleached out to this deathly whiteness, by slow degrees. The more reasonable and philosophic. 1 cause is found, how- ever, in the statement that, during the years 1816 and 17, the thermometer scarcely rose, in that immediate region, above the freezing point; and these trees havin~ put forth no foliage during that entire season, it is believed that they remained congealed in the sap during a period of sixteen months; and were thus destroyed, and afterwards blanched by time and storm. The traveler stands with a shudder upon the verge of the deep precipice which flanks this frightful and dreary VOL. x.2 17 spot, but for an instantand hastens on with quickening pace, again. The scene so stron~ly resembles a congregation of ghosts, that it has been aptly called the Den of Ghouls. But this scene is quickly left in the rear, and the traveler gladly hurries up, here, as the busy guide hastens along cheerily with his encouraging Now, gentlemencome along, come along; almost there, ladies. Beautiful day, dinner on the table at the Sum mit, amid Tip - top. Better going, l)y-an- byhurry up, hurry up ! and you turn the bluff once more, still ascending, more rapidly than before. Prom this point, the bridle-path is narrowe(1 to a mere line, formed over the continuously rocky way by the hoofs of the horses, and is but a single stretch 18 A Season at the White Mountains. [July, (without variation in character) of Houses. Within forty rods of the doors loose stones, and small boulders ir- of these hospitable buildings, erected at regularly thrown together, upon which the very peak of Mount Washington. the donkey treads with increased can- there stands a rude pile of rocks, some tion, picking his way up and onward, eight or nine feet high, which arrests with the most commendable moderation your attention, and which is thrown up and careplanting first one foot and by the hand of friendship to mark the then another, as he goes, and skillfully scene of a painful occurrence which calculating the chances of the trip or took place in the fall of 1855, upon that misstep that might tumble himself and spot. his usually nervous rider headlong over Miss Lizzie Bourne, of Kennebunk, some ugly precipice on his right or left, Me., in company with a small party of as he advances thus sluggishly along, her immediate friends, started from the panting, and puffing, and toiling upward Glen House, at a late hour one day to the summit halting-place, which he during the month of September, in tIme remembers so well. expectation of reaching the Summit For the hundredth time you ask the before dark, where they intended to guide if that mound or that cliff beyond tarry till the following day. you is the last? You have been in the They passed the shanties, and Mr. saddle four or five hours, laboring con- Myers cottage (below the ledge), in tinually up hill; and, though you can ad- excellent spirits, but Mr. M., who had mire the magnificent scenery that you long been a resident of the mountains, are permitted to behold, yet your appe- deemed it too late for them to reach tite has been strangely sharpened (at the summit. They hastened on, how- least, such Mr. Greene declared to be his ever, and a sudden storm came up, innermost sensations), and you are which increased as they continued to right well inclimmed to test the quality ascend; and they finally found them- of the viands prepared for and awaiting selves bewildered with the sleet and your arrival at the Summit and Tip-top snow, entirely at a loss to determine which way they should turn. Night succeeded, the dreary darkness enveloped everything around them and still, under the guardian- ship of the gentleman of the party, they struggled on, and upward. Wearied out, at length, arid absolute- ly lost in the blackness of the night and the storm, they were compelled to halt, and shelter themselves as best they mightunder the terrible circumstancesbe- neath the comparatively friendly lee of a large boul- der they discovered. The physical strength of Miss Bourne, evidently, was not equal to the task of as- cending Mount Washington on foot, at all, her health being fragile previous to this effort. They crouched beyond the rock, however, as far out of the reach of the wind as it was possible to retreat; and there they remained, amid the howling and raging of that fearful storm, during the entire 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. 19 night, the unfortunate young girl reclin- ing upon her protectors knee. When daylight broke, the party discovered themselves within forty rods of the Summit Housebut Miss Bourne had perished during the darkness! They had ascended without a guide; and the sufferings of that little company can scarcely be imagined, as they clung to- gether during the weary hours of that long and fearful night. One of them died on that spot, and the health of the others was seriously periled. This monument has been thrown up to mark this shocking incident in the history of the mountains. You turn away, with a sigh for poor Lizzie Bourne, and the voice of your guide cheers you with the shout of ere we are, gentlemen ! The sum- mit is reached, at last. A world of magic-like beauty lies around you; you behold a myriad hues that you have never dreamed of before; you see a widely-stretching field of gorgeous landscape which pen or pencil never has and never can de pict, a wonderful blending of curious light and shadow that artist never con- ceived, and cannot portray. You real- ize more in a single instant of sunshine, upon the crest of old Washington, than you can feel or imagine in a lifetime of study of all the masters in Chris- tendom. Drink in the glorious inspi- ration that floats around and beneath you, and make haste to enjoy the rich voluptuousness of this once-seen-and- never-to-be-forgotten pantoscopefor a veil is passing over its outskirts; and even while you gaze, the cloud ap- proaches again, the magnificent picture is shut from the view, and you find yourself enveloped, haply, in mist, or sleet, or rain! This is but temporary, however. The order is given to mount, for the descent, and you are soon threading your way down the bridle-path, en route to the Glen House once more. Before leaving, you take a look at the little squatty Summit House, where you have so comfortably dined, and which will not be forgotten by you. It was built by Messrs. Hall and Rosebrook (well known pany) shall be erected to supersede mountaineers), of rough stones, blown it. out of the crown of Mount Washington Descending the mountain, on horse- itself, and is secured to the rocks by back, is a vastly more uncomfortable four cables which are drawn over the process than that of ascending. In the roof and are fastened into the mountain sharper defiles and gulches along the near the foundation. It is rather plain bridle-path, it is nice work for the tired in exterior, but is substantial, and an- animals to keep upon their feet and swers its purpose until the new build- maintain their burden alsothe larger ings (contemplated by the road com- portion of those, whom they thus convey [July,. 20 A Season at the White Mountains. to and fro, being but indifferent riders, or totally unpracticed in the saddle. Yet these animals manage their uncertain loads with great show of care, and but very few acci- dents occur, not- withstanding the difficulties of the journey both up and down this tortuous accliv- ity. My friend, Mr. G r e en e, was particularly struck with the ~~C beauty of the Crystal Falls, and leaped about, upon the rocks below them, with a precision and celerity that would have electrified a chamois, to the infinite gratification of the ladies, who freely admitted that Mr. Greene was a vast deal more agile and juvenile than they bad hitherto given him credit for. Indeed, we found it impossible to control his activeness at all, though suggestions were repeat- edly thrown out to him, both by his companions and the guide, in reference to the deceitfulness of his foothold upon the rocks, which, in many places, were covered with a mossy slime, upon which it was unsafe to step, without great caution. He mounted the side of the very pre- cipice itself, and stood upon the level of the upper rocks, whence the waters came tumbling down, where he waved his hat to us more timid gazers-up below him, in very triumph at the achieve- merit, Then he descended the rocks again, declining the proffered assistance of the guide, with his Pooh, pooh! my dear sirno! Havent I been round a bit in my time 1 But you might fall, persisted the guide, politely and I wouldnt like to see you in the drink, you know. Never mind me, sir. I know, said Mr. Greene, with a pirouette that would have shamed Papanti himself; and, missing his good intentions, Mr. Greene, without another syllable, popped head foremost into a bend of the pool, to the great alarm of his friends, and the subdued but evident amusement of the anxious and really attentive guide! We sprang to the rescue of Greene amid the frantic shrieks of the ladies, who were desperately alarmed for his safety. But Greene was born not to be drowned, plainly; for he rolled over like a huge porpoise, and was drawn from the pool by the skirts of his coat, without any detriment whatever, except the inconvenience of the involuntary cold-bath. As the guide jerked him rather unceremoniously ashore, he re- peatedly remarked, I told you so, sirI told you so. To which assur- ances the ungrateful Mr. G., as he blew the water from his mouth and nostrils, only responded, A pretty guide, you! What the devil did you push me in there, for? I? Push you in? exclaimed the guide, astounded. Yes, siryes! Push me in, and get a fee for helping me out. I see, sir. It wont dowont do with me, sir. Ive traveled too much for that. Dont try it again, sirI wont give you a pennynot a red, sir ! Heartily as we sympathized with Mr. Greene in his little misfortune, we were compelled to laugh outtight at this lu- dicrous misconstruction on his part, and the turn he thus gave to the acci- dent. And in the midst of our rejoicings that it was no worse, and the jokes which his misstep unavoidably occa- sioned, we started briskly on through 1857.] A Season at the White Mountains. 21 the woods again towards the road, where Over the stream which crosses the our carriage awaited us. road, and which comes down from the legends connected with these hills; and one of the superstitious Indian tradi- tions relating to the origin of the White Mountains is not uninterest- ing. It is related that the cold storm- king was abroad in the great northern wilderness, and a lonely hunter-chief cascade described, is placed a log- bridge. At this point you enter the wood, on the right. This is anoth- er pretty spot, overarched by high trees, whose foliage shadows the cool water that passes noiselessly away at this point, and flows on through the forest and the valley to the southeastward. In the early spring- time, this stream is alive with trout, and excellent sport may be had by drop- ping a line~ in the numerous pools along its banks. Numerous and fanciful are the old 22 JJT~~ found himself far away from his wig- wam without food, chilled and cheerless amidst the wintry blasts. He could find no game, and the dark clouds over his prospects rendered him life-weary and disconsolate. He sank beneath the chill- ing snows, and slept. In his dreams, he was borne away to a green and beautiful valley~ where the streamlets sang joy- fully, and birds and game were abund- ant. His spirit cried with joy! The Great Master of Life then awoke him, and placed in his eager grasp a flint- pointed spear. Then giving him a dry coal, told him that he might dwell upon the shore of the placid lake near him, and kill fish with his spear, and kindle fire with his coal. One dark night, when he had lain down his coal, and built his customary fire, there suddenly arose a blinding smoke, and a terrible voice was heard from out the rising flame. Then succeeded the fearful thunder, the earth was rent, and there rose up a huge mass of broken rocks, which piled themselves to the heavens. A cloud rested upon the summit of this suddenly-formed cliff, from which pour- ed down a thousand sparkling streams, which quenched the fire again; and the astounded hunter heard the voice again, in peaceful and loving tone, exclaim: Rest here! The Great Spirit will dwell with you, and watch over his favorite children! We left the cascades, and the rustic bridge, and the cool streams of Ellis and Peabody behind us, and hastened home- ward; for our friend was in no condition to enjoy even the lovely scenery we met, after his recent unsolicited immersion! He had listened to the legends told by our guide, as we hurried back, in moody silence, and as we stepped into the hotel again, he bowed to the ladies, and passed on to exchange his saturated dress, with the simple and classical sentiment, Al- a-bama IHere we rest! O LOVE is left in days gone by; And yet there is no broken vow! Wet met of old, but you and I Tis sometimes meet each other now, A quite indifferent he and she, Tho once enshrined in lovers WE ! That time !tis now Long, long ago ! Its hopes and joys all passed away! On lifes calm tide three bubbles glow, And pleasure, youth, and love are they; Hope paints them bright as bright can be, Or did, when you and I were WE ! [July1

"We" 22-23

22 JJT~~ found himself far away from his wig- wam without food, chilled and cheerless amidst the wintry blasts. He could find no game, and the dark clouds over his prospects rendered him life-weary and disconsolate. He sank beneath the chill- ing snows, and slept. In his dreams, he was borne away to a green and beautiful valley~ where the streamlets sang joy- fully, and birds and game were abund- ant. His spirit cried with joy! The Great Master of Life then awoke him, and placed in his eager grasp a flint- pointed spear. Then giving him a dry coal, told him that he might dwell upon the shore of the placid lake near him, and kill fish with his spear, and kindle fire with his coal. One dark night, when he had lain down his coal, and built his customary fire, there suddenly arose a blinding smoke, and a terrible voice was heard from out the rising flame. Then succeeded the fearful thunder, the earth was rent, and there rose up a huge mass of broken rocks, which piled themselves to the heavens. A cloud rested upon the summit of this suddenly-formed cliff, from which pour- ed down a thousand sparkling streams, which quenched the fire again; and the astounded hunter heard the voice again, in peaceful and loving tone, exclaim: Rest here! The Great Spirit will dwell with you, and watch over his favorite children! We left the cascades, and the rustic bridge, and the cool streams of Ellis and Peabody behind us, and hastened home- ward; for our friend was in no condition to enjoy even the lovely scenery we met, after his recent unsolicited immersion! He had listened to the legends told by our guide, as we hurried back, in moody silence, and as we stepped into the hotel again, he bowed to the ladies, and passed on to exchange his saturated dress, with the simple and classical sentiment, Al- a-bama IHere we rest! O LOVE is left in days gone by; And yet there is no broken vow! Wet met of old, but you and I Tis sometimes meet each other now, A quite indifferent he and she, Tho once enshrined in lovers WE ! That time !tis now Long, long ago ! Its hopes and joys all passed away! On lifes calm tide three bubbles glow, And pleasure, youth, and love are they; Hope paints them bright as bright can be, Or did, when you and I were WE ! [July1 1857.] 23 THE EMBROIDERED HANDKERCHIEF. -cy-f~ I - 1~#y~ 2 ~ .4 ~Jy ,) t:f~Z - T is so beautiful outside the win- dow that I can hardly keep my eyes upon my work. ~ How bright the ~ colors are u n d e r U. this warm ;~ sky! The leaves ~ shine, ~ they are so very green! Then, how bril- liant the scarlet flowers look that climb up round the lattice! And the birds are gay and bright! But when I look inside, all is very gloomy. The walls are thick, and heavy, and dark. Oh! Sister Theresa, why will you wear that black, dreary dress? And, your face, oh! it would be so beautiful, but, dear Sister Theresa, that cap is hide- ous ! My child, my child, are you speak- ing to me? I cannot listen to you. If the sunlight and the gay colors are such a temptation to you, it were better to shut them out. Long ago I shut them out from my soul, when I closed the door of the world behind me. It is be- cause the colors are so gay that I do not look out of the window. Marie, I do not wish to turn back. But, Sister Theresa, said Marie, shall I ever be so? You are good, I would wish to be like you, but must I give up all happy things? See, at just thinking of it, it sets me crying !the tears are all over my embroidery. Theres one in the very midst of the pattern ! It is better to work tears in your embroidery, said Sister Theresa, than flowers. Flowers spring from the earth, and raia falls from heaven. Holy souls have been made pure by the many tears that have washed away the sins that might have stained them. I will work over these tears, said Marie; see, I have filled up one little circle; that is where I have buried one of my tears. In all my little life I have not shed a great many. Some day some stranger will come into the convent to buy a piece of the nuns embroidery, and, perhaps, he will be willing to buy my handkerchief. For, Sister Theresa, I am really beginning to embroider quite

The Embroidered Handkerchief 23-40

1857.] 23 THE EMBROIDERED HANDKERCHIEF. -cy-f~ I - 1~#y~ 2 ~ .4 ~Jy ,) t:f~Z - T is so beautiful outside the win- dow that I can hardly keep my eyes upon my work. ~ How bright the ~ colors are u n d e r U. this warm ;~ sky! The leaves ~ shine, ~ they are so very green! Then, how bril- liant the scarlet flowers look that climb up round the lattice! And the birds are gay and bright! But when I look inside, all is very gloomy. The walls are thick, and heavy, and dark. Oh! Sister Theresa, why will you wear that black, dreary dress? And, your face, oh! it would be so beautiful, but, dear Sister Theresa, that cap is hide- ous ! My child, my child, are you speak- ing to me? I cannot listen to you. If the sunlight and the gay colors are such a temptation to you, it were better to shut them out. Long ago I shut them out from my soul, when I closed the door of the world behind me. It is be- cause the colors are so gay that I do not look out of the window. Marie, I do not wish to turn back. But, Sister Theresa, said Marie, shall I ever be so? You are good, I would wish to be like you, but must I give up all happy things? See, at just thinking of it, it sets me crying !the tears are all over my embroidery. Theres one in the very midst of the pattern ! It is better to work tears in your embroidery, said Sister Theresa, than flowers. Flowers spring from the earth, and raia falls from heaven. Holy souls have been made pure by the many tears that have washed away the sins that might have stained them. I will work over these tears, said Marie; see, I have filled up one little circle; that is where I have buried one of my tears. In all my little life I have not shed a great many. Some day some stranger will come into the convent to buy a piece of the nuns embroidery, and, perhaps, he will be willing to buy my handkerchief. For, Sister Theresa, I am really beginning to embroider quite 24 The Embroidered Handkerchief [July, like one of the nuns. How clumsy I was at first! But I do improve, and some time or other I may be allowed to work upon those glorious altar-cloths that you delight to make so beautiful ! It is not merely outward grace that is needed for them, said Sister The- resa; oftentimes I am not fit to touch that which is set apart for so holy a use. I wait until I have wholly submitted myself, and every thought within me, to the sacred purpose in which I am engaged. Ah, me, said Marie, I shall never learn to submit my thoughts. In the first place, I cannot submit myself. I want to go wandering up and dowa in the garden. Whenever Sister Ursula calls me into her cloister, I directly think I would rather go into the arbor; and if she tells me to sit in the arbor, I suddenly discover I would rather not be there. I caat even keep my eyes quiet. When I sit on the stone-bench, to an- I had, long ago, in my dear old home. Oh! Sister Theresa, may I tell you about that Place ? Little child, said the other, II would rather you would teach your thoughts. See how you have taught swer the questions, this way, that way, they go to Sister Lucies rosary, or Sister Ursulas profile. Poor child, said Sister Theresa, ears, and tongue, and eyes, and feet! you cannot keep any of them under control! When, indeed, can the heart and soul come under subjection ! As for my thoughts, dear Sister Theresa, how could I ever keep them still? continued Marie, I have so many of them, and I like to have them wander about. I love to embroider, better than when I came, because now I can stitch my thoughts into my work. Whenever I come to this ivy-leaf in my pattern, I think of the heavy vine that covers up the dark-gray tower, and of the frolic I had beneath it one day with the porters little girl when they let her come into the garden. And then this forget-me~not, as I call it, though it doesnt look much the shape of a flower, it reminds me of a little garden- border your hands that were so clumsy when you first came. Now you can, as you say, embroider almost as well as Sister Ursula. That is because the patterns are so beautiful, I love to look at them, said 1857.] The Embroidered Handkerchief. 25 Marie, I could never learn to weave that delicate hair-work; I should never have the patience to braid all those chains and bracelets that Sister Ursula weaves out of hair. It makes me fidg- etty just to look at her. She braids little fine hairs with her fingers, that would break a thousand times in mine. I would not do it for the world; then I couldnt give my thoughts to it. I like to think of the pleasant things that may happen some day; all sorts of fancies come into my head. I like, too, to think of the old times. Oh! Sister Theresa, if you would listen while I tell you of my pretty home by the Hudson I listen to you, child, already, too much, said Sister Theresa, I am afraid that I let you carry me back into the world. Oh! the place where I used to live was not the world, answered Marie, papa and I lived there quite alone. There was a beautiful lawn, and the river went by the house, and boats passed many times a day, and we had such pretty brown horses, and I had a pony, and everybody was so kind to me, and they all let me do just what I pleased. Alas, my child ! said Sister The- resa, does not everybody let you do as you please ? Oh, everybody is kind to me, an- swered iXlarie, and nobody does con- tradict me, but sometimes the sisters shake their heads at me and look very grave. At least they try to, and seem to think I am often very wicked. No- body thought I was wicked at home, though I did nothing but laugh and sing. I have not told you what made me think so much of home, nor what I saw the other day. I was in the garden when I saw Barbara go towards the gate that leads to the street. I never looked out of that gate before. It is forbidden, Marie, said Sister Theresa. Well, dear Sister Theresa, said Marie, I did the forbidden thing. Barbara was talking with a man with vegetables at the gate, and at first there was nothing better to see than his old 26 The Embroidered Handkerchief. [July, donkey, but presently a young man passed by A young man ! exclaimed Sister Theresa. He only passed by, though he looked in, said Marie, and he started and looked astonished a minute at least I think he did; for I was startled, too. I had seen his face once before, three summers ago, at home. Barbara shut the gate directly, and I had only this one glance; but that. glance brought back to me the day when my father brought home with him a friend of his from New York. The day, I remember perfectly, was a lovely summer day, and this Mr. Philip admired everything. He admired the smooth lawn, and the flower-border, and me, perhaps, too ! Marie, one forbidden act opens the way for many forbidden thoughts, said Sister Theresa. But I may love my father, said Marie, and I may love his friends, too; and what harm is it, just to look out at the gate once ? Marie, you know when you left the school to live with us here, said Sister Theresa, you were willing to submit to our rules. Oh! dear Sister Theresa, ex- claimed Marie, I am willing to do everything to please you, and to give up everything. I was so tired in that dreary school, where the girls talked nothing but Spanish, and where they were so vain and idle. That day when we came to visit the cloisters, I fell in love with you. How could I help it, when your face looks so like the picture of a beautiful nun! Then they told me it was your voice that I had heard at vespers and in the masses. When the same voice spoke kindly to me, I thought, if I ever should be good in the world, it would be when I should see you all the time. I was willing you should come here, said Sister Theresa, though it seemed a strange thing, that when I was living here still and cold, dead to the world, striving to live only to God, it was strange that I should be willing to let you enter hereto let you be with me at times. You, Marie, are gay and joyfulI am grave and sad; oh! may it not be a sin to me to take you so near my heartI, who have vowed to have no heart but for One !J, who be- lieved I had chilled all earthly love Marie, I close my ears when you are speaking; I close my eyes when you come before me. Little gay flower, you twine around the gray turret; some day you will be plucked away from me. But you, dear Sister Theresa, cried Marie, you are not like the gray turretyou will not always be so cold you have not always been so cold! What I have beenthat matters not, said Sister Theresa, I know only four yearsthe four years that I have lived on this island. The walls around me have shut me in, and have shut out the world; and beyond the walls the sea cuts me off from other life. You, poor little one, long for a glimpse through the opening of the gate into the little world that is round the convent-walls. Ah, let the stone walls shut you in! rrhere is one way that is not barred: that is upward. The broad heaven is not shut out; you are not fettered from that, except by sin. Four years, dear Sister Theresa, said Marie; and I have been here only one, and that has seemed very long. It is two years since we left our old home; there it was pleasant a whole year that we lived in France. Not a word of English did I speak that year, for papa would not allow it; and we did not see a single American or English- man. I suppose he thought it was better for my French, but I would have liked to talk to him in English. Now the French comes so easy, that is why I like to talk to you instead of the Spanish school-girls. And yet I think I know enough Spanish to please papa, when he comes back for me. I wonder where he will take me next. I would rather not wander any more; I dont care to know any more languages; I believe it is because I speak French that you are willing to listen tome; and yet we never talk about France, your own home! Therese! Therese! ah, now you are not listening to me; you have gone back unto your visions again. Why did I say anything? why did I not let you go on and talk to me of yourself? No, it is better to let your voice go murmuring on, said Sister Theresa; I must not always listen to it. It comes in like the evening breeze, gen- tly through the window. It woos me, but I do not ask it to caress me. So you listen to me no more than to the wind, said Marie; there go more tears down on my work! I wonder if 1857.] The Embroidered Handkerchief. 27 this handkerchief will ever wipe away as many as I have shed upon it! Sister Theresa, I believe you like me to em- broider, because I use this cotton; how pretty it is, with this mark upon it the mark of the cross! that is why it is called nuns cotton, I suppose. But I will not work any more or cry any more to-day. Your evening breeze, Sister Theresa, is going down into the garden, to play. My little Marie, said Sister The- resa, I would do all things for your good; this is the way I excuse myself for having you so near ~ Ah, yes; and perhaps some day I shall leave off being a butterfly, said Marie, though that is not the way in the garden; there the ugly worm comes out into the pretty butterfly. But I shall grow into the wormthat is, I shall put on the ugly worms dress, and cut off my long hair. Now, dont look shocked, dear Sister Theresa, though you did hear those naughty words. If I could be with you more hours a day than I am, I might be better; but you must be either in that tiresome hospital or I give too little time, now, said Sister Theresa, to mercy or to devo- tion. Go away, little child; if you would only pick the flowers alone, and not the weeds ! In a convent, thought Marie, as she ran away, there can be neither flowers nor weeds; but I would like to be good, for Sister Theresas sake. She went bounding through a large hall, and found collected there a knot of the sisters. They were eagerly talk- ing over some matter of deep interest. Marie did not mean to linger long, as Sister Theresa had taught her not to join the little gossiping circle that tbrmed itself in the hall whenever the daily news came; for gossip and news of the day penetrate even within the convent walls. The little citadel had its hours of exchange and its moments of prattle. Sometimes the subject was the illness of one of the sisters, its causes, and her probable indiscretion; sometimes it was the bearing of a new corner a novice from the world. There were little quarrels with the por- ter, little jealousies among each other. Even these little sins the convent walls do not shut out. To-day the talk was of the great news of the peace from Europe, and Marie was attracted by the exclama- tions that were made. Father Ignatius will tell us when he comes, said Sister Ursula, whether it is for good or for evil that peace is made. The war was better, it seems to me, said another, if they were fight- ing for the Holy Church. How can they lay down their arms? How the Holy Church should ever need the help of those heretics, the Mussulmen, I could never understand, said Sister Martha. It was undertaken with unholy means; that was why it failed, said another. The more sober were discussing in this way the great event of the close of the war in Europe, which had happened many months before; but the younger sisters were listening to the account of the last battle, lingering over the names of the dead. M. Benin among the killed ! one exclaimed; is that the father of Made- line 1 Yes. She had come to the convent when her father left France with the army. She was not one of the little circle present, though every one looked round cautiously. Already the mother must be telling her the sad news. Sister Theresa must be told; she was from France, too. Yet Sister Theresa. had never spoken of friends or home. She had often chided these younger ones who had talked lingeringly of father, brothers or sisters left behind even of mother. You have chosen the Bridegroom; you have left all to follow him, she had said. Marie, after li~tening to the tale a while, went back to Sister Theresa. She met one of the others who had been to distribute the news; to tell of the peace, or to rend out the list of the dead. Marie went in to where she had left Sister Theresa sitting. She was still in the same spot; lean- ing back in her sent. Marie went to embrace her, and found her chill and cold! She called her to speak; called, too, for help; but no one heard her. She covered Therese with kisses; she could not bear to leave her. At last she seemed to breathe a warmth into the cold form; the stiff eye- lids relaxed, there was a smile upon the thin lips. Presently, a low voice said Speak to no one, Marie; there is 28 The Embroidered Handkerchief. [July, no help. Her words came feebly and slowly, but she clung to Maries band. Child, child she said, at last, and interruptedly, I was trying to turn my soul to God, but it clung to earth; it followed one J loved. They read me of the death of Madelines father, and of one other, still nearer to me, than he to her. Now we shall pay our vows to- gether before God. Now, I can love him, since he is no longer on earth. I think the summons has come, yet I know not how soon I am to go. Pray for me, Marie! I could not shut him from my heart, though I had turned my heart to ice. I did not know how I still loved him, I did not know how he still lived in my prayers to God, even. Now he has risen up above the walls that separated me from the world. Now can I love him. God has chosen to lift him up to where I should raise my eyes. God forgive me for my unfaithfulness! My heart did not turn towards Him now has he kindly broken it. Child, I did not mean to deceive you; I deceived myself, also. Forgive my sin, and pray that God, also, will forgive me The tired eyelids closed, the lips ?ell into a gentle smile. Marie was terrified by the coldness of the hand that held hers still, and ran, at last, for helpit came; but it was unavailing. The physician spoke of a sudden disease of the heart. Sister Therese had always appeared delicate. No one wondered at so sudden a death, though it gave a shock to the quiet community. Marie wept bitterly as the dear, beautiful form was placed beneath the pavement. The gray convent walls appeared more sad and dreary than ever, and she went backaway from themto her pension. II. I KEEP on with my work, said Agnes, because you will keep on with your walking up and down the room in that moody way. I expect to be enter- tained; and if you wont entertain me, why, my work must. Do sit down, Philip, a few minutes; how can one carry on a conversation with a walking steam-engine ? Here am I, opposite to you; what will you do with me 1 asked Philip. I should like to do something to make you less dolorous, answered Agnes. I expected to enjoy your coming home again, and talking with you. But it is not nearly as exciting y. ~ - 1857.] The Embroidered Handkerchief. 29 as looking out for letters from you, even when, half the time, they didnt come! To he sure, I couldnt read them when they did come, written on both sides of that foreign paper.~~ It is a pity you couldnt, said Philip; it would have spared some words. How economical you have grown, answered Agnes. I suppose you re- gret the many you threw away in your youthful days. But, do you know, you have appeared such a dolorous knight since you came home, that I have heard it hinted that you felt badly about my marrying George. It is the only thing that has made me happy this long time, said Philip; I could have asked nothing better. Thank you! thats complimentary ! answered Agnes. George is your friend. George is a good fellow, and he deserves good fortuneso, it pleases you. But, why that should be your only bright spot, I cant understand. Is it so very dark to come home again after traveling all over the world and seeing everything, to settle down with plenty of money, and nothing to do but enjoy it ! I havent traveled for pleasure, I havent, seen what I wanted to, I am not rendy to settle down, I dont care for the money, and I dont know how to en- joy it, answered Philip. Well! I should say that was posi- tive, if it were not so negative ! cried Agnes. You mean you will be un- happy anyhow. That is easy enough to manage! One can make a poor din- ner off anything. Here in New York there is no sort of necessity of seeing the sun; you may sit in the gloom all day. One may choose to be pricked by the points of the best joke, or find an acid in the flow of the liveliest spirits. It is easy enough to he morose; but. dear Philip, isnt it rather common- place ? You wont answer ? she continued. Well! that is a resource! Yet it is a disappointment to have you turn out one of that sort. Why, my weakest- headed partner at a ball can talk about lifes being a bore Thank you, Agnes, you need not set me down in that set, nnswered Philip. I have a real trouble which is enough to color the rest of my life. Oh! forgive me! A real trouble! That is an unusual thing. How could I suspect it! I saw you were gloomy, but I supposed you were moody. This is the dark mood, I thought to myself; by-and-by our moon will turn round, and we shall see the bright side. Every- body ought to be allowed their moods. Sometimes I dont talk for two hours. But there you go, Philip, up and down the room again. Do sit down, and tell me about your real trouble. I am your best friend; you have not any sisters; there is nobody else you can tell. And you know, if I do talk, I never tell any- thing. It is a pity you cant do my talking for me, said Philip; and, indeed, you cant help me. Why, what is it? Have Grimm & Co. failed? Dont your consignments come to hand? That~s the kind of thing that worries George. Did you lose your heart on the peak of Teneriffe, or your trunk at Calais ? If it were a game of twenty ques- tions you would soon guess it, answered Philip; that would save me the trouble of telling you.~~ Thea I came near, did I? It was the heart, after all, I do believe. Now, tell me all about it! It is not a heart that is lost, but a person. I had the clue, and I have missed it, said Philip. How romantic ! said Agnes; a sort of Fair Rosamond. I hope there is no Queen Eleanor on the track ! Do you remember Mr. Grayley whom we used to know ? What! Grayley the defaulter, who went off a few years ago with every- body elses money? That is, it turned out he did not carry off the money because he had spent it all beforebut he went off just the same. I remember, he was a friend of yours at one time; you went to his pretty place on the Hudson. That was just before I went to Calcutta, said Philip. I told you about his pretty place; and did I tell you of his pretty little daughter ? A pretty daughter? I declare you did not say a word of her, said Agnes. She was a young girla mere child, answered Philip, at the time she attracted me. She lived away from the world; yet was loved and petted by the whole household. At the time, as I tell you, she did not -impress me strongly; but, after.I had left home, in my travels, her face and figure often 30 came before me. On my way home, you know, I came overland, and through Spain, passing by the Azores. We had a short time for the town of Fayal. Frisbie and I went on shore for a slight exploration of the town. We passed up a narrow street, under some heavy convent walls.- Suddenly a gate opened, and an old portress appeared to talk with some one outside. It was a pretty enough picture; the laden donkey in the street, the suddenly-opened arch- way, a garden revealed inside, glowing with flowers and fruits, and the pictur- esque old woman in the door-way. But there was added another feature; there appeared, in the background, a light, youthful figure, and the face was familiar! The gate closed suddenly. I stood fixed before it. It was the little MarieMarie Grayley! I knocked at the door, but could not get admission. Frisbie thought I was suddenly crazy, and, persuading me that I was, got me off upon the ship. Not till after we had sailed did I convince myself that it was surely Marie that I had seen. At first it seemed impossible that she, whom I had seen so happy at home, should be shut up in a convent; but I reflected that, in my two years absence, many changes might have taken place, In short, how could I but believe my eyes. I could think of nothing elseshe haunted me in my voyage night and day. The first news on my return home was of Gray- leys misfortune. Misfortune ! exclaimed Agnes, please dont burden Dame Fortune with his misdeeds ! At least, be willing to judge an exiled man kindly, Agnes, answered Philip; I cant believe that he was the only wrong-doer. But, anyhow my first thought was of his child. I made inquiries of his family. He had none but this one child. He had de- serted his country-seat; not a servant could give a trace of his departure. I entered upon the search carefully and thoroughly. The only clue that, at last, I could find was a vague report that he had gone to Havre. But the probability that I had seen Marie be. came a certainty. Grayley must have left the country a poor man; and this poor child, brought up in the midst of luxury, he might very probably have placed in the school of a convent, while he wandered away himself. Was there no grandmother, or The Embroidered Handkerchief. [July, maiden aunts who would know some- thing or do something for the child ? asked Agnes. I took the next vessel for Fayal, continued Philip. Yes, you did not indulge us with a good-by, interrupted Agnes. We had a long, tedious voyage, Philip went on, and after I had ar- rived it was long before I could gain admittance to the convent. At last I was admitted into the parlor, where were displayed articles for sale made by the nuns. In return for some little purchases, I learned that such a young girl had been at the school and had left that very week. I went back into the town and made some inquiries. Mr. Grimshaw, who had been consul at the Cape of Good Hope, or somewhere at the south of Africa, had stopped at Fayal with his four daughters, to take home with them the youngest. who had been at school in the convent. I saw the broad-faced Mr. Grimshaw and some of the daughters. They were so pleased with the island they were going to wait for the next vessel. But I, disheartened and disgusted, took my passage the next day. Now I am eager to go back again. The only trophy I have is this em- broidered handkerchief I bought at the grating of the convent. It has a strange effect upon me. Whenever I look upon it, it brings back to me the vision of the little Marie as I saw her in the stone archway of the garden. Let me look at it. What exquisite work ! exclaimed Agnes. Oh, Philip, do you remember that beautiful winter we passed in South America? Oh, no, you were not with us. I was an invalid, you know. How delicious it was to lie on my couch and look out upon the blue sea, upon the point of land, and the cocoanut-trees that rose up from it. For yes, there were truly cocoanut-trees there; and below, such rich foliage and flowers glowing, so that it almost pained ones eyes to look upon them. But I asked nothing better than to look all the time, to lie quietly and dream as my eyes feasted upon the glory and the beauty; and in those beautiful quiet days, I gained such strength and re- freshment. It recalls to me all the resolutions I made to be no longer a mere butterfly, but to live a better and higher life. Then I had nothing to do but thinkto think over the past, and 1857.] The Embroidered Handkerchief. 31 over a better future. I wish I could keep the thought by me. It seems like a gleam of summer coming out upon the hard frozen ground. Those gor- geous days! Oh, Philip, I am dream- ing them all over again; what is there that carries me out of this wintry New York into that beautiful southern cli- mate. And I, who felt sad and happy all that time, feel sad and happy now The door of the room was suddenly thrown open, and the cry of fire was heard. There is fire in this wing of the hotel! Save yourselves ! Go! go! Philip, see if it is true ! cried Agnes. What a noise! what confusion! I will look for Georges papers. I have the handkerchief! But she had scarcely time to save herself. She ran for a box of valuable papers of Georges, then was hurried down the stairway through the crowd in front of the house. Philip placed her in a carriage, and then went back to see if there were anything else to be saved. The handkerchief clung to the dress of Agnes, as she hurried through the crowd and fell upon the pavement as she was put into the carriage. There it lay trampled upon by heavy feet, covered with mud, unperceived, until a boy with his eyes on the ground suddenly discover- - ed it, picked it up, and looked around in vain for - in owner. What a pretty thing! I will take it home to sis- ter Martha, and ask her about it. I He left the scene of the fire, and hurried omi through narrow lanes. He went up three flights of stairs before he reached his home. Wheres mother1, e demanded. ~Out wash- ing? I hope I did not wake you up, Martha! I might have known you would be lying here trying to sleep. Never mind; how caine you home at this time? asked the languid voice of the sister. Theres a fire up town~ and a jolly row, said the boy. I was trying to get a glimpse of it, and down in the street I saw this handkerchief or something. I thought I would bring it home to you. Its a queer thing. Its enough sight better than mittens; it warmed my hands, it did, thin as it looks. All the way home I was thinking of last summer, and 4th of July, and boating expeditions in the sun. Lets look at it, said Martha. How beautiful it is, and such fine stuff as it is made of. Oh! Jemmy, that is what I miss now I am sick. It is good to be at home, and have mother care for me wheii she has time for it, butit is wicked for me to say so everything seems coarse round me! Out at service anywhere, even at Mrs. Flints, where there were hard words enough, it was pleasant to see the fine furniture and the beautiful clothes; and Miss Julia used to look so lovely when she was dressed. Oh! Jemmy! when will I get well ? Well, the doctor said this kind of fever lasted five or six weeks, and then But how beautifully this is worked, 7 K I, 32 The Embroidered Handkerchief. Martha went on, it is finer work than any of Miss Julias handkerchiefs. Oh! I like to hold it in my hand. It is but a few weeks before Robert will be home, and now he must be sailing by those warm countries he has told me of. Jemmy, he promised to bring me home one of the bright, gay birds they have in that country. If I could only go to meet him there! The warm air that he tells of would make me well again. When I close my eyes, I seem to be there and he with me, to care for me with beautiful breezes! You can leave me, Jemnmy; with this handkerchief over my eyes, I am sad and happy both. It makes me sad to think that Robert will find me sick when he comes home.and happy to lie here and dream of him. Jemmy hurried away. He had er- rands to run, and his master kept him very busy. He could not go home again for some days, much to his moth- ers sorrow. Ive been looking out for you these three days, she said, when she saw him at last; you must find who it is that has lost this elegant handkerchief. [July, I have done it up beautifully, and I never enjoyed doing up anything more in my life. Somehow it took me back to the old place. Oh! Jemmy! will you ever be as good looking as your father was when he came to see me Sunday nights in the old house. And quite as handsome, I thought him, out at work in the fields! Well, hes out of his hard life, now, she said, wiping her eyes with her apron. But Ive wasted plenty of time thinking. You must find the owner, Jemmy. Poor lady, she must have cried hard enough at losing it, and no handkerchief left to wipe her eyes with after all ! Phew ! exclaimed Jemmy, shes got hand- kerchiefs enough! But give me the flimsy thing; lets see if it will warm me up again; may be I will speak to a police. Jemmy proceeded first to the scene of the late fire. Here his active eyes discovered an advertise- ment on one of the neigh- boring walls LosT. A valuable em- broidered handkerchief. The finder will be richly rewarded by bringing it to No. 61 St. Nicholas Hotel Jemmy at this hastened his steps. If I get any- thing by the concern, he soliloquized, see if I dont buy some fireworks. Martha talks about the warm country; Id be sa- tisfied with sitting under a rocket, eating an orange, may be a cocoanut if it was the sqason. His quick steps soon brought him to the hotel, and, after some repartee, in answer to supposed insults from the porters and waiters, he found his way to No. 61. One or two ladies were in the room, who were surprised at Jemmys errand. A lost handkerchief! It must be- long to the people who were in the room before uswe only came to-day. Let us look at it. Let me see it, Isabel; you khow I lost a handkerchief last spring, at the opera. But this is a different affair. What a lovely vine round it! and how 1857.] The Embroidered Handkerchief 33 graceful these flowers are! Is there a perfume in the handkerchief? Perhaps it is sandal-wood; oh, Isabel, doesnt it make you homesick for New Orleans ? I dont observe a perfume, but there is certainly Mrs. Stacy, my mother, did it up, spoke up Jemmy; she clear-starches and takes in muslins, three stairs up Oh! we must go back to New Or- leans, this winter, Isabel. How can we stay in this cold climate? Think of the roses, of the warm sun; think of the early violets. Indeed, I never forget them; I seem to feel a breeze of warm air that makes my head faint ; and Isabel threw her- self upon a sofa, and covered her eyes. I think of the jessamine vine that grew by my window, and those early violets~--the perfume comes back to me now. Oh! Annie, we have done wrong to live away from home so long. This round of pleasures we have lingered in has confused us, and made us forget old ties. I have grown heartless; if I could only be simple once morecould only be again in that fragrant air! Annie, I was very thoughtless towards Arthur; I know he loved me; do you remember those beautiful spring days ? Hush! Isabel, interrupted Annie; how you do go on; and here is this boy waiting. That is just the way my sister Mar- tha talks when that thing is near her, said Jemmy; and as for me Jemmy was interrupted by the ap- pearance of a lady and gentleman at the door. The lady came forward into the room. I hope you will excuse me, she said, but I find that my cousin, before he left town the other day, advertised the loss of a handkerchief we valued, and referred the finder of it to these rooms. I didnt know of it when I left them this morning. But, Philip, see! it is here, said Agnes, as Isabel came forward to meet her, with the handker- chief in her hand. I shall be sorry to part with it, she said, though it has done its work. It has carried me home again. I cannot tell what is the strange power it has. Perhaps there is the same in all things, did we open our hearts to receive it; it has melted away ice that was gathering in my soul. Meanwhile, Philip was standing in the loorway, in a happy dream, as he held VOL. x.3 the handkerchief in his hand. But there was another interruption. A party of travelers were passing through the entry, and about to ascend the stairs close by. The Grimshaws, from Faynl, whispered Annie, as a short gentleman led the way, followed by a number of ladies. Four of them passed along, showily dressed; but they were followed by anothera young girlheavily laden with carpet-bags and packages. Her figure was slight, her face very sad in its expression. It seemed as if the eyes had worn themselves out with weeping, and the lips had forgotten to smile. She looked up wearily for a moment, but suddenly let all that she had fall to the ground, as her eyes turned towards Philip. Philip, who had moved away hastily, when he heard the Grimshaws men- tioned, started as he looked upon the figure before him. Marie ! he exclaimed. Mr. Philip! is it you ? cried the poor little Marie. The Grimshaws turned back. Marie! Miss Grayley! what does this mean? Is this indeed the little Marie for whom we have been looking so long ? exclaimed Agnes, as she went forward and seized her hands. Perhaps these ladies will let us come into their room to explain all, she said to Isabel and Annie; and the Misses Grimsh~w will excuse Marie for a little while to the friends who have found her. Isabel and Annie willingly retired. Agnes led Marie into the room; Philip followed dreamily. The Misses Grim- shaw picked up their fallen shawls and veils, while their father scolded the por- ters. Jemmy seated himself on the stairs, thinking he could afford to wait... awhile, in the prospect of the rich reward. When they had entered the parlor, Marie went up to Philip. Is it true ? she said; will you be a friend to me? My fathermy poor father She could not say any more~ Agnes drew her towards herself, while Marie burst into a flood of tears. We are your friends, indeed, she said, caressingly; Philip has been trying to find you. It was Mr. Philip, then, I saw,~ said Marie, at last. Oh! I have thought so much of that day; I have 34 The Embroidered handkerchief [July hoped, indeed, that one of my friends was living to take care of me. Alas! you have suffered much, said Philip. It is only since a little while, an- swered Marie, that I have been so sad; but sorrowful enough then for many years. Where have you been ?when did you go to that convent? It is little more than a year since I have been at Santa Maria, and for a time I was very happy there. But a few months ago, I lost my best friend. I thought it was sorrow enough when Sister Theresa left me; she was too beautiful to live long; she was heavenly always, so I ought not to feel sorrowful for her. But I did feel very sadly; I didnt know there were such heavy troubles left behind. How came you with these Grim- shaws ? asked Agnes. Oh! my father, my dear father ! cried Marie; I did not see him again It is not possible Philip began. Yes, yes, I shall never see him again. They came to tell me in the school that there was some one to see me from my father. Oh! how joyfully I went to see my fathers friend! I should be so glad to know one vvho had known him! At first he spoke to me kindly, and, perhaps he did not know betterand, indeed, what difference would it have made in the way he told me that my father was dead! Oh! that is the first time I have said that terrible word. He had been in Africa; and, indeed, I ought to like this Mr. Grim- shaw, for it was at his house that my father was taken sick. He was going to write to mehe meant to write to me, but every day he thought he should be betterthat he should come to me himself. Only once he said that if any- thing happened to him, would Mr. Grim- shaw come and take me home. Another time he spoke of a letter he had written to a friend of his that he had not yet finished, which I should bring home myse~*~ This letter Mr. Grimshaw brought to me; but alas! there was no 1857.] The Embroidered Handkerchief. 3.5 address. So I seemed quite friendless, though I did not know it myself. I was so overwhelmed with my great sorrow that I knew only that, or, indeed, scarce- ly knew the depths of that. I believe I was wildwas passionate; yet I submit- ted to Mr. Grimshaw when he told me ha must carry me away with him. I wished to go; I did not care where. Yet, after we left the school, we lingered awhile And I was there, interrupted Phil- ip. Oh! why was I so blind ! But was it not terrible that I should never see my father again ?that he could not come to me to bid me fare- well ?that his last words I should learn through a stranger? The letter of his, I believed must be to you, Mr. Philip; yet I did not know your whole name. I studied it as his last wish. Let me see it, said Philip, eagerly; a letter to me It is here, said Marie; they are his only words. He could send me no other. My dear young friend, the letter said, you are the only person who can know me by that name; the only per- son, I believe, who would be willing to call me a friend. Even your friendship for me I would not put to the proof, but in behalf of my child, of whom, I be- lieve, you must have kind remembrances. I recall my- self to you. You know the circumstances under which I left home; I have tried to keep from her a knowledge of them. I hope to leave behind me some resources for / her, that she may not have to blame me for her neglect. Philip, you remember her gay, young, and happy, in ~., the midst of luxury and ease; _ you will find her alone, with- out friends, in discomfort; perhaps this may touch your heart, and make you willing to stake her into your guardi- anship. My affairs This was all the letter con- tained. Your father has left me your guardian, said Philip, joyfully, and you will give me your consent, too ? Butno, said Marie, looking down; Mr. Grim- shaw tells me that my father left behind him nothing for my support. Indeed, I cannot tell you the hard words he said of my fathermy own father! It chilled all the feeling I had begun to cherish towards my fathers friend. To think I was a burden to any one; oh! that was heavy enough; but to have his memory charged with anything wrong! I told Mr. GrimshawI told them all, I would work for them day and nightthat I would rather work; it was a happiness for me that he left no fortune behind him, because I needed to work, I should be so unhappy now he was gone.~~ And so they made you an upper servant, exclaimed Agnes, and load- ed you with their parcels. They have no claim upon you now, said Philip. I am your guard- ian by your fathers will. It is, indeed, fortunate that there is no property be- sides, or my title to take charge of it might be disputed. While a young, tender girl I will go to them di- rectly. You shall be my sister, said Ag- nes; I am Philips cousin, and you shall work for me, too; only it shall be such pretty work as you lovelike that delicate handkerchief that has bewitched me so much. What charm did you work into it ? 3m (/Y~ \~~N~(\ ~- 3(1 The Old Museum. [July, The handkerchief! what had become of it? Philip had let it fall from his hand when he recognized Marie. He opened the door; in the entry was Ma- ries little trunk, deserted by the Grim- shaws, and the disconsolate Jemmy, just leaving. Philip called him back, and Agnes and Marie listened to his errand. He did not go away till his claim to the reward was fully satisfied. But the handkerchief! As it lay in the corridor, a sudden gust of wind from an opened door had blown it down the entry. A servant picked it up, and car- ried it, broom in hand, td the window, to examine it. Sorrow! and is not that beautiful ! she exclaimed; ~ it is as thin as the cobweb mistress just showed me; its the prettiest thing I have seen since I came to this country. Why ever did I leave my own? Sure, it was for fol- lowing you, Patrick; and if I should be always going after you, I should not be at rest yet The grass was green there, and the birds used to sing. It was not all up-stairs and down, as I have to go all day now. Why ever did I leave my home? And such a long way to come here, too! I cant remember the months. And will I never go home again? I will never know my way back. I would like to see the good old country once more, just to know it is better there than here. Sure, it was warmer to my heart. Here theres no Patricknobody else that is like my old home. She tried to wipe her eyes with her apron; the dust-pan and broom fell from her hands. The light, thin hand- kerchief, too, left her grasp, and floated out of the window. There it goes ! cried the girl, as she watched it floating beyond her reach; it looks li~ke a white dove; and I think it must be a bird from the old country, to set me dreaming of home. It has fallen on the ground! No, it is away again! Where will it go now THE OLD MUSEUM. KEPT in awe by battered portraits frowning over the balustrades, and exposed to detection and arrest by a mysterious step in the stairway, which communicated with a bell above, we fancy that no young man under twelve years of age ever gained access to the Old Museum in the Exchange without first advancing a shilling. One forward youthwell read in a Dick Turpin class of literaturewe are aware, accom- plished the feat by climbing the light- ning-rod, and descending through the observatory; but this was an exception as well as a deceptiona move that moral principle or a fearfully projecting cornice rendered impracticable to the common run. (The youth who did it dared to go anywhere; and he once passed a tempestuous evening on the 1857.] The Old Museum. 37 top of a tall steeple in process of erec- tion.) It was a golden epoch in your life when the requisite amount of cop- pers had accumulated in your stone money-jug, to enable you to ascend the stairs with impunity, and to return the stare of the old lamp-black heroes that leaned from the wall to guard the en- trance. But, after all, it was somewhat fearful to find yourself alone, surrounded by the silence and immensity of this won- derful placeknowing that a real stuffed alligator lay concealed some- where, and that Miss McCrea was con- stantly being murdered by Indians some- where else. The grim heads began to be cheerful company, when contrasted with the unknown horrors beyond-.--oc- cupying a locality favoring flight, in case anything wicked or supernatural should suddenly appear. It was this feeling of indefinable dread that prompt- ed you to study a whirlwind of paint denominated a naval engagement, in which Decatur was supposed to be leaving his ship in a jolly-boat (al- though nothing of the kind could be made out), with a very uneasy sense of satisfaction. It would have been pre- sumptuous to have doubted the merit of that picture then; but, as you have since picked up some knowledge of art, the conviction has forced itself upon your mind that it was no more than a miserable daub; and that old Time, con- sidering it unworthy of those mellowing touches it is his wont to bestow on paintings, had, in a fit of indignation, knocked it black and blue at once. You mustered a little courage, slowly, and ventured to look around. That case of ancient shoes, with an astonishing variety of heels and toes, attracted less of your attention, per- haps, than did a large, jagged, sulphur- suggesting rock, which, you were as- sured by a label, came down from the sky! Even now, you do not feel particularly grateful to the Old Museum for that bit of scientific information; for a dupli- cate stone has acted a prominent part in numerous dreams, and you have, more or less, expected it to come crashing through the roof of your dwelling, sometime in the night season. Those strange, dingy men-of-war, every rope perfect, made by sailors, while off on tedious whaling-voyages, were deeply interesting, but not so marvelous, per- haps, as a long wooden chain, the links of which were interspersed with balls, in impossible situations. The chain was especially fascinating, for the reason that it was executed with a jack-knife, in the hands of a convict, whose original sentence had been commuted to impris- onment for life, and who employed his leisure moments in this ingenious man- ner, in order that he might keep his mind occupied, and live through it. A light bark canoe, ornamented with beads, and containing savage-looking war-clubs, came in for a share of in- spection, and you felt bound to believe that whole families of sanguinary South- Sea Islanders had paddled the affair in various directions, for the purpose of feeding upon the members of other tribes, with whom they had a heredit- ary misunderstanding. The old conti- nental coat said to have been worn by General Putnam, when he clattered down the rocks at Stamford, and the crimsonclad British fired from above, conflicted slightly with the account in the school history, showing as it did, if we recollect, sixty-three perforations in the back (done by the royalists, the Christian proprietor claimed), of which the compilation ~r youth made no men- tion: thus leaving it an open question, whether the historian, the owner of the museum, or the moths had the right of it. There was an electrical machine in one of the apartments, and a camera- obscura up in the cupolabut these were so shockingly out of repair that they left no vivid impression upon the mind. If you mounted a chair, stood on tip-toe, and dislocated your neck, high- ly-colored pictures of cities could be seen by gazing through little round windowsLondon, Glasgow, Paris, Na- ples, Rome, Pckin, and so on; but as there was a good deal of sameness in these pictorial cities, you concluded it was just about as well to live in your native town, as to see Naples and die. A baby with two largely-developed heads, dancing a polka in a glass jar, and habitually under the influence of spirits, was too fantastic to be looked at for any length of time; and it was pleasant to turn to the contemplation of a ferocious wild boar, with glaring eyes and tremendous tusks, which seenft~d on the eve of attacking a won- derfully large and majestic elephant. just opposite. The mammoth shark, suspended from the ceiling, you strong- The Old Museum. 1 July, ly suspected of being the same old fish that bit off the legs of Mr. Campbell (as related in the National Reader), when he very imprudently disregarded the advice of friends, and, at the close of a sultry day, plunged from the deck of a ship into a tropical sea, and had an end put to his foolish existence. Passing the ruins of a mastodonskillfully con- structed from the osseous portion of the before-mentioned elephant, and patched with the bones of that useful animal, the horsethe youthful visitor arrived at a window-fronted room, and, shading his eyes, saw the most horribly~attractii~e combination of curiosities that the Old Museum had to offer, at any price. No young person, who ever saw them, can have forgotten those painted and feath- er-bedecked savages, brandishing toma- hawks and scalping-knives around the disheveled head of the kneeling Miss McCrea, or those two tears of the mag- nitude of marbles, resting upon her pale and beautiful cheeks! And there was Black Hawk, in a blue frock-coat, adorned with glittering U. S. navy.but- tons, a long red sash, and other evi- dences of refinement. Why, oh! why rushed he not in to save the unfortunate young lady, instead of standing in one corner of the forest, watching a frag- ment of ragged anaconda, and a poor, dusty little pelican? We sincerely believe that group of wax statuary has only been surpassed in modern times by a couple of famillea once owned by the St~ Helena show- man: one of which was intended to illustrate the evils of drinking too free- ly, and the other designed to show the blessings likely to flow from using cold water exclusively as a beveragebut both so excessively disagreeable that the spectator was left in doubt as to which domestic circle had the advan- tage. When you came out of this collection of wonders, and stood in the sunshine and bustle of the principal street (after a seeming absence of several days), you could not but feel a mingled sentiment of surprise and pity towards a school- mate, who was squandering his property for a pine-apple, at the corner confec- tionery, as the money thus invested would, more wisely expended, have car- ried him triumphantly into the Old Mu- seum. Very likely he had already been in. Yes, but why didnt he go in again? 1857.] The Old Museunt. ~39 The Old Museum was not a remunera- tive enterprisemuseums never are and one day an auctioneer scattered the rare and valuable things all over town some of the more antique and delicate specimens (like birds) to the winds. The elephant, we remember, was run up to a high figure, in a jocular way, and knocked down, seriously, to a young gentleman of limited means and exube- rant animal spirits. As the elephant, notwithstanding its enormous size, had been the germ of the museum, the rest of that excellent institution had gradu- ally grown up around it, and the huge quadruped had come to be shut off from the outer world by an exceedingly com- plicated series of improvements; and the rash bidder nearly ruined himself in paying the host of men required to cut away partitions, lower his prize from the fifth story of the Exchange, and transport it to his residencefor years and years had passed away since the imposing brute, glorious in scarlet and silver, had led the van of a caravan, roll- ing to the clang of cymbals and bugles, and his hide was as rigid as sheet-iron. The aggregate outlay was essentially increased by the building of an elevated mound of earth and masonry for the ma- jestic animal to stand upon, in the gar- den of its owner. But the young and volatile citizens soon ceased to admire the grandeur of the spectacle, and de- voted their hours of recreation to hurl- ing stones at the venerable effigy; and so the possessor, having contracted a deep disgust for his purchase, and no little anxiety for his life, secured the shavings and sticks with which the mon- ster was stuffed (ivory previously re- moved) and had the whilom wanderer among African jungles tipped, legs up, into an adjoining lot. The noble beast, however, still retained its shape, and, with its feet in the air, appeared to be throwingoutthe pantomimic invitation to community: Come on, with your dead cats and all sorts of contemptible rubbish it wontbe noticed while Iamhere; this is the spot for rusty stove-pipe, defunct dogs, and lobster-shells; heres the place for trashcome on ! And then the neighbors entered a complaint; and that was the reason, which has never before been satisfactorily explained, why the nuisance-committee took hold of the matter, and made the owner of the brave old elephant pay a heavy fine. 40 rjuly, VENERABLE BEDE. IN former timesor, to name a definite period, we shall say in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, ere paper money was introducedit was customary, in the great commercial cities of Italy, and very likely, also, in those of other Euro- pean countries, for a bag, purporting to contain a certain sum of gold or silver money, to pass from hand to hand, without its contents being examined or counted, on the credit of the little label attached to it, specifying how much there was, or ought to be, within. This saved a great deal of trouble; and when, at length, it might become necessary, from any cause, to count the money, and a deficiency should be found, either in the tale, weight, or standard, why, then, the holder had his remedy against the person from whom he got the bag, and might recover from him the defi- ciencyif he could. What the label was to the old leathern money-bag, such has been the term Venerable to the character, literary, moral, and religious, of the old monk of Jarrow. From the customary influence of this little word venerable, though the old Miracle Trading Company, by which it was sanctioned, if not originally imposed, has greatly declined in credit; and from the ponderosity of Bedes bag, his works, to wit, in eight volumes folio, appalling to even the most assiduous teller, its contents have been very sel- dom examined; and, though hints have, from time to time, been given by a few who had had the curiosity to look into it with some degree of attention, that it was not filled exclusively with the pre- cious metals, it has yet been sealed up again and put into circulation at pretty nearly its old. nominal value. Dropping here the metaphorical bag, we shall proceed to give a few particulars relat- ing to Venerable Bede, illustrative of his times, his knowledge, and his writings. Bede was born, A. D. 637, in that part of the Saxon kingdom of Northumber- land which now forms the county of Durham; and, according to tradition, in the neighborhood of Monkton, a village about two miles to the south- westward of Jarrow, in the monastery of which he died, A. D. 735. Jarrow church, which originally belonged to the monastery of Jarrow, is one of the oldest in the kingdom; it was founded, in 681, by Benedict Biscop, who had founded another monastery at Wear- mouth, dedicated to St. Peter, about seven years before. According to an inscription, of the period, now placed within Jarrow church, over the arch of the tower, it was dedicated to St. Paul, on the 9th of the kalends of May, in the 15th year of King Egfrid, and in the 4th of Ceolfrid, abbot of the said church, that is, on the 22d April, 685. The form of religion, which then passed for Christianity, having been in- troduced to the Saxons of the south by the monk Augustine, under the auspices of Pope Gregory the Great, in 596, and those of the north having been con- verted also by the monks, within the course of the succeeding forty years the bishopric of Lindisfurn having been founded in 635a profession of monkery appears to have become ex- tremely prevalent among the new con- verts, and more especially those who were of royal or noble birth. Monas- teries were founded in various parts of the kingdom by persons of wealth or influence, of both sexes, who, gathering together a colony of monks and nuns, not unfrequently under the same roof, withdrew from the cares and vanities of the great world, to devote themselves to a life of holy celibacy and pious seclu- sion, and, possibly, to enjoy the pleasure of administering the affairs of a little world of their own. That many good and sincerely pious persons found in such places a refuge from the anxieties of secular life, there can be no question; but it is also certain that many of the professed still retained the vices and bad passions which they brought with them, whether from the country or the court; for, since to a spotless mind and innocent, Stone walls do ~ot a prison make, ~Tor iron bars a cage so neither are the consecrated walls of a monas.tery a restraint on the cogita- tions of a mind that is impure. What exile from his native land ~ Eer left himself behind ? Amongst the best deserving of. those of that age who pleased themselves by

Venerable Bede 40-44

40 rjuly, VENERABLE BEDE. IN former timesor, to name a definite period, we shall say in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, ere paper money was introducedit was customary, in the great commercial cities of Italy, and very likely, also, in those of other Euro- pean countries, for a bag, purporting to contain a certain sum of gold or silver money, to pass from hand to hand, without its contents being examined or counted, on the credit of the little label attached to it, specifying how much there was, or ought to be, within. This saved a great deal of trouble; and when, at length, it might become necessary, from any cause, to count the money, and a deficiency should be found, either in the tale, weight, or standard, why, then, the holder had his remedy against the person from whom he got the bag, and might recover from him the defi- ciencyif he could. What the label was to the old leathern money-bag, such has been the term Venerable to the character, literary, moral, and religious, of the old monk of Jarrow. From the customary influence of this little word venerable, though the old Miracle Trading Company, by which it was sanctioned, if not originally imposed, has greatly declined in credit; and from the ponderosity of Bedes bag, his works, to wit, in eight volumes folio, appalling to even the most assiduous teller, its contents have been very sel- dom examined; and, though hints have, from time to time, been given by a few who had had the curiosity to look into it with some degree of attention, that it was not filled exclusively with the pre- cious metals, it has yet been sealed up again and put into circulation at pretty nearly its old. nominal value. Dropping here the metaphorical bag, we shall proceed to give a few particulars relat- ing to Venerable Bede, illustrative of his times, his knowledge, and his writings. Bede was born, A. D. 637, in that part of the Saxon kingdom of Northumber- land which now forms the county of Durham; and, according to tradition, in the neighborhood of Monkton, a village about two miles to the south- westward of Jarrow, in the monastery of which he died, A. D. 735. Jarrow church, which originally belonged to the monastery of Jarrow, is one of the oldest in the kingdom; it was founded, in 681, by Benedict Biscop, who had founded another monastery at Wear- mouth, dedicated to St. Peter, about seven years before. According to an inscription, of the period, now placed within Jarrow church, over the arch of the tower, it was dedicated to St. Paul, on the 9th of the kalends of May, in the 15th year of King Egfrid, and in the 4th of Ceolfrid, abbot of the said church, that is, on the 22d April, 685. The form of religion, which then passed for Christianity, having been in- troduced to the Saxons of the south by the monk Augustine, under the auspices of Pope Gregory the Great, in 596, and those of the north having been con- verted also by the monks, within the course of the succeeding forty years the bishopric of Lindisfurn having been founded in 635a profession of monkery appears to have become ex- tremely prevalent among the new con- verts, and more especially those who were of royal or noble birth. Monas- teries were founded in various parts of the kingdom by persons of wealth or influence, of both sexes, who, gathering together a colony of monks and nuns, not unfrequently under the same roof, withdrew from the cares and vanities of the great world, to devote themselves to a life of holy celibacy and pious seclu- sion, and, possibly, to enjoy the pleasure of administering the affairs of a little world of their own. That many good and sincerely pious persons found in such places a refuge from the anxieties of secular life, there can be no question; but it is also certain that many of the professed still retained the vices and bad passions which they brought with them, whether from the country or the court; for, since to a spotless mind and innocent, Stone walls do ~ot a prison make, ~Tor iron bars a cage so neither are the consecrated walls of a monas.tery a restraint on the cogita- tions of a mind that is impure. What exile from his native land ~ Eer left himself behind ? Amongst the best deserving of. those of that age who pleased themselves by 1857.] Venerable Bede. 41 founding monasteries, Benedict Biscop may justly claim a place. He was of noble family, and had held an office under King Oswy; but he renounced all sec- ular honors in order to devote himself to religion. He became a monk, having received the toasure in the celebrated monastery of Lerins, in Provence; and, after having visited Rome twice or thrice, he commenced the foundation of the monastery at Wearmouth in 674, having obtained from King Egfrid a grant of land in order to enable him to carry his design into effect. He sent to France for masons to build the church; and he also sent to the same country for gla- ziers to glaze the windowsthis art, according to Bede, being then unknown in England. He decorated the interior of the church with paintings which he had brought from Rome; one wall being covered with pictures of the Virgin and the twelve apostles, and others with subjects from the Evangelists and Reve- lations, together with representations of the Last Judgment and the Mystery of the Incarnation, so that the humble dis- ciple might feel his faith confirmed wherever he turned. He further en- riched his new establishment with many relics and books which he had obtained abroad; and he also brought from Rome Brother John to officiate as leader of the choir, and to instruct the monks in chanting the service. Into this monastery (Wearmouth), Bede entered as an alumnus, or pupil, when he was only seven years old. At the age of nineteen he was ordained a deacon by John of Beverly, then Bishop of Hexham; and at the age of thirty he was ordained a priest by the same pre- late. Shortly after his admission to the priesthood he appears to have removed to the brother monastery of Jarrow, where he continued to reside till the time of his decease, diligently employing himself in compiling glosses and expo- sitions of the Scriptures, and in com- posing works for the edification both of himself and his brethren. At that time there were six hundred monks belonging to the monasteries of Wearmouth and Jarrow, .and in most of the other monas- teries of the kingdom their number ap- pears to have been proportionably great. Most of those monks were not priests, but a kind of intermediate class between the clergy and laity bound by a vow to yield obedience to their abbot, and to live a chaste and holy life. It may be here remarked that, in the time of Bede, most of the monks were accustomed to labor with their hands in the fields of the monastery, as well as to pray with their heart and voice in the church or the cell; they mowed the hay; reaped and thj~ashed the corn; and eke, milked the cows and fed the calves. But, in subsequent times, the number of monks belonging to each monastery became greatly diminished; for the more pious, who were also possibly the more indolent, and certainly the most powerful and knowing, having discov- ered that manual labor withdrew them too much from their more pleasing of- fices of devotion, it was thought better to employ laymen to cultivate their grounds and perform the more laborious servile offices about the monastery. The number of those admitted to profession was restricted; and as the monks be- longing to a monastery became fewer and more select, so did the number of its lay laborers increase. Under his instructors Bede acquired such a knowledge of the Latin language as to be able to write it with clearness and ease; and it has also been said that he had a knowledge of Greek if he had, it was very small, and certainly not beyond a mere knowledge of words as synonymous with others of Latin. From the Greek h~ derived no knowl- edge of things; for of all that is most interesting and permanently valuable in Greek literature, he was wholly ignorant. We are informed that the genius of Bede embraced the whole cyclopindia of human learning; that he acquired his knowledge of natural philosophy and mathematics from the purest sources, namely, from the works of the Greek and Latin authors themselves; and that he had a competent knowledge of poetry, rhetoric, metaphysics, logic, astronomy, music, cosmography, chronology, and history. By one writer he is represented as trimming the lamp of learning, and irradiating the Saxon realm of Northum- berland with a clear and steady light; while another, who has recently edited a translation of a portion of Bedes works, professing to amend the language of the text, and in his own slip-shod introduction supplying proof of his in- competence to perform the task, says, in his own peculiar style, that it seems not a little surprising that one who had scarce moved further than the place of his nativity should so accurately 42 Venerable Bede. [July, describe those at a distance. The correctness of description, it is to be observed, is here taken for granted: the correct transcription of a portion of Gullivers Travels by the master of the City of London Schsol, would be just as surprising as Bedes accurate descrip- tion of those at a distance. For a specimen of such accuracy, we beg to refer the reader to Bedes tract, De Locis Sacris, which the learned editor has, most unaccountably, neglected to cite. The writer, who described Bede as trimming the lamp of learning, might have, represented him, more truly and graphically, as a good-natured, gar- rulous old monk, of great but not accu- rate memory, beguiling the long winter nights by reading to the other monks, in the common hail, with the aid of a rushlight, a huge volume of extracts, compiled by himself, from the works of the fathers; varying his course of lec- tures with a chapter of his own Eccle- siastical History of the English Nation, stuffed here and there with thumping miracles, for which he must be par- doned, as Bishop Nicholson charitably observes; and occasionally rousing them, when he perceived that they were becoming drowsy, with a narrative from the life of St. Cuthbert, which, as he has represented it, was nothing but a ~ries of miracles from beginning to end. To speak without figure, he is, in his purely theological works, the mere tran- scriber of earlier authorized opinions, without ever venturing to inquire into the reasons on which they might be based. His ecclesiastical history is, in many places, where opportunity is af- forded of testing it by other authorities, extremely inaccurate, while it abounds in passages which, at first sight, are ~Wed to be purely fabulous. That did not invent them may be a salvo for his honesty; but then the fact of his recording them, as he has done, must be admitted to be a proof of his being no less blindly credulous than the most illiterate of his countrymen. This work is also infected, though in a slight de- gree, with that loathsome impurity which is often to be met with in the writings of monkish authors, both of the Greek and Latin church. That which was shameful for a layman to do or even mention, the cloistered monk often seems t. have felt a depraved pleasure in recording. The portion to which we allude is that in which Pope Gregory the Great answers the queries of Au- gustine, Archbishop of Canterbury. Bedes life of St. Cuthbert is a per- fect specimen of that kind of biography which, when served up by writers of a later period, is nsually classed under the head of pious frauds. Strange, that those who are most eager to mag- nify the extent and value of Bedes learning and knowledge should seek to absolve him from the charge of pious fraud, on the plea of pious ignorance! It cannot be said that the miracles which he records of St. Cuthbert were conse- crated by time, for Cuthbert was living when Bede was born, and did not die till 687, when Bede was thirteen years old. As Bode had many more to imitate the fictions which he recorded, than to be edified by his faotn, it may be truly said that the light which he contributed to diffuse was of that kind which rendei~s man blind, rather than enables him to see. Dr. Stillingfieet, Bishop of Worcester, speaking of the legendary lives of the saints, says that St. Gregory the Great and Bede, whom he erroneously dubs St., showed the way to the rest, and by their own credulity and want of judgment gave a pattern and encourage- ment to all the monkish tales and im- postures afterwards. This is not, however, exactly correct; the Way was previously shown by St. Athanasius, in his life of St. Anthony, the patron of monks, and by Sulpicius Severus, in his life of St. Martin, of Tours. It has, indeed, been denied that the life of St. Anthony was really written by Atha- nasius; yet the genuineness of no one of the works ascribed to him depends on better authority. It is related that, shortly before the Reformation, a French bishop, in re- turning homeward from an embassy to Scotland, visited, on the same day, the shrines of St. Cuthbert and Bede, in Durham Cathedral; that at St. Cuth- berts he offered a small copper coin, saying, St. Cuthbert, if thou art a saint, pray for me ; and that at Bedes he offered a French crown, requesting his prayers because he was a saint in- deed. This anecdote, and its quota- tion by certain shrewd persons, for the purpose of depreciating Cuthbert and exalting Bede, present a curious exem- plification of the manner in which the mind, though conscious of a fallacy 1857.j Venerable Bede. 43 somewh.. e, is yet unable to disentangle it, and, cutting boldly, cuts wrong. Cuthbert is, to a certain extent, regarded as an impostor; while in this case the real impostor is extravagantly honored; though it be owing to his fallacious nar- rative alone that the mind has become impressed with a confused idea of the former having pretended to have done or said that which the false or credulous biographer has recorded of him. He who really thinks Bede a saint is bound to receive Cuthbert as a saint, also. A man pays but a left-handed c& mpliment to the knowledge and piety of a friend, by treating a person as if he were a cheat, merely because he was highly reverenced, and his saintly virtues much extolled by that friend. Bede was very highly esteemed in his own age for his great learning; and William of Malmsbury says that Pope Sergius wished him to come to Rome, in order to consult with him on ecclesias- tical affairs. From what circumstance he first acquired the title of Venerable has not been determined. According to one account, he obtained it from the following circumstance: When he was old and blind he was led about by a young monk, who once took him to a heap of stones, telling him that they were country people waiting in reverent silence to hear him preach. He forth- with began, and at the end of his dis- course the stones saluted him with Amen, Venerable Bede ! The other is, that one of his scholars, when en- gaged in writing his epitaph, could not complete it for want of an appro- prite word; but leaving it at night thus, Hac sunt in fossa Bedn . . ossa, he found, next morning, the blank filled up with the word venerabilis. It is equally credible that both those accounts are true. Bede was interred at Jarrow; but about the year 1022 his remains were conveyed to Durham, and placed beside those of St. Cuthbert, by Elfred, a brother of that monastery, who was an enthusiastic collector of reliques, more eager to secure possession than scru- pulous about the means. It seems, says the late Mr. Surtees, in his History of Durham, that a propensity to con~ veying, as the wise it call, was no less inherent in those ancient collectors of rarities than in their modern representa- tives. Au old chair, said to have been Bedes, is still preserved at Jarrow. The seat, which is of oak, of great so- lidity, and rudely hollowed out, is un- questionably antique; the back and sides are more modern, the originals having been several times carried off in small pieces, by visitors, as portions of Bedes chair. About the year 1370, Bedes remains, which were inclosed in a shrine of gold and silver, appear to have been removed from the feretory of St. Cuthbert, and placed on a marble table in that part of the church called the Galilee. This shrine was defaced at the Reformation. His bones were buried beneath the spot where it stood, and over them was erect- ed a plain table monument. In 1831 the tomb was examined, when several bones, reputed to be Bedes, were dis- covered; that they really were his is un- certain, seeing that suveral monasteries, both in England and on the Continent, could boast of having some of them. We have not said all that we could have wished to say respecting Bede, but our paper is out. That the opinions which we have expressed concerning Bede may not, however, be miscon- strued, we beg to say that we have no desire to unfairly depreciate a Saxon relique; we only wish to ascertain its real value and use, not only with ref- erence to the standard of times past, but also to that of times present. Au acre of land might be purchased for a shilling in the time of Bede; but he must be grossly infatuated with the love of antiquity who would now give an acre of land for twelve Saxon pennies. To draw to a point. Oh, Wiseacre! part not with thy mental fre& hold upon such terms; and ever as thou kvest correct accounts, trust not implicitly to the label, but examine the contents of the bag. [July, EARLY RISING. f~tOD bless the man who first invented sleep ! U So Sancho Panza said, and so say I; And bless him, also, that he didnt keep His great discovery to himself; or try To make itas the lucky fellow might A close monopoly by patent right ! Yesbless the man who first invented sleep (I really cant avoid the iteratio~); But blast the man with curses loud and deep, Whateer the rascals name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-offEarly Rising! Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed, Observes some solemn sentimental owl Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about their riseand fall, And whether larks have any beds at all! The time for honest folks to be abed, Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he, who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till its fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning-winks, Is upto knavery; or elsehe drinks! Thomson, who sung about the Seasons, said, It was a glorious thing to rise in season; But then he said itlyingin his bed At ten oclock A. M.the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasnt sanctioned by his practice. Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake Awake to duty, and awake to truth But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours, that leave the slightest ci~use to weep, Are those we passed in childhood, orasleep Tis beautiful to leave the world a while For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live, as only in the angels sight, In sleeps sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin! So, let us sleep, and give the maker praise; I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, Served him right !its not at all surprising The worm was punished, sir, for early rising ! 44

Early Rising 44-45

[July, EARLY RISING. f~tOD bless the man who first invented sleep ! U So Sancho Panza said, and so say I; And bless him, also, that he didnt keep His great discovery to himself; or try To make itas the lucky fellow might A close monopoly by patent right ! Yesbless the man who first invented sleep (I really cant avoid the iteratio~); But blast the man with curses loud and deep, Whateer the rascals name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising, That artificial cut-offEarly Rising! Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed, Observes some solemn sentimental owl Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray just inquire about their riseand fall, And whether larks have any beds at all! The time for honest folks to be abed, Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he, who cannot keep his precious head Upon his pillow till its fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning-winks, Is upto knavery; or elsehe drinks! Thomson, who sung about the Seasons, said, It was a glorious thing to rise in season; But then he said itlyingin his bed At ten oclock A. M.the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasnt sanctioned by his practice. Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake Awake to duty, and awake to truth But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours, that leave the slightest ci~use to weep, Are those we passed in childhood, orasleep Tis beautiful to leave the world a while For the soft visions of the gentle night; And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, To live, as only in the angels sight, In sleeps sweet realm so cosily shut in, Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin! So, let us sleep, and give the maker praise; I like the lad who, when his father thought To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, Cried, Served him right !its not at all surprising The worm was punished, sir, for early rising ! 44 1857.1 45 MIZZEN-TOP MUSINGS. THE staunch old ship Good Cheer lies at her wharf. She has come in from a long and tedious voyage, during which she has met with unusual buffet- ings, and she now seems resting from toil and danger, and recruiting her en- ergies for another adventurous tour of the world. As some old gentleman, when wearied with his long tramp through crooked, crowded, and dusty streets, rejoices to reach his home, and there, in order to enjoy his leisure to the utmost, unbuttons his coat and vest, stretches out his legs, and rests his ach- ing head against the wall, so does it seem to me that the ship Good Cheer has determined to make the most of a few short weeks of inactivity, and has thereto placed herself in negligent atti- tude and attire: stripping off her sails, folding up her bowsprit and studding- sail booms, loosening her rigging, open- ing her hatches, as though for breath, and throwing out upon the wharf the heavy cargo which for months has held her head pressed down into the waves. It is a pleasant sight to see the old ship again, even under the negligent air of easy contentment. She is far from being in trim order, to be sure; nor does she appear to the same advantage as when, once upon a time, I was wont to watch the spray fly to either side, as she dipped into the brine, or, leaning against the bulwarks, gazed upon the graceful swell of the distended sails, en- joying, all the while, the pleasant roll- ing motion. She lies now almost as lifeless as the dingy warehouses which line the shore. She floats in a pool of unhealthy-colored water, in which the sport of dolphins and albicores is usurped by the rotation of a wretched circle of cocoanut-husks, chips, and half-decayed lemon-rinds. Men, in mis- erable little punts, bump up against her sides, and she has no power to resent the familiarity. Hideous steam-tugs fly past, and snort defiance; but she is helpless as to reply. And, if the truth must be told, her deck is very dirty. But, even in the midst of such discour- aging influences, I can recognize here and there a trait to awaken my old fondness, and fill me with pleasant as- sociations of the past. Here, lashed behind the wheel, is the old double-cask life-preserver, upon which I have so often sat, and, leaning over, watched the play of the phosphorescent water of the tropics. There is the quarter-deck hand-rail, scratched from one end to the other with tallies of unnumbered games of cribbage. And there, up aloft, is the mizzen-top, where I so often sat, and read, or played, or mused, or watched the horizon, in the vain hope of being the first to signalize myself by discover- ing a strange sail. And now, moved by a passing whim, I leap over the quar- ter-rail, cling to the shrouds, and begin to ascend. It is harder work than it used to be. Either I have grown more portly and less elastic in my limbs, or else it is the fault of my long-skirted coat and high-heeled boots, which, in- deed, are not well adapted for climbing. But I resolutely persevere, rise from ratlin to ratlin, swing myself clum- sily over, and at length seat myself once more upon the mizzen-top as of old, with my right hand grasping the shrouds, and my feet hanging over the edge. * * * * * * Would you like to know, Tom, what I thought of when seated up there? I thought, at first, of you, and how that it might have been a good thing for you if you could have been there with me. I fancied that, as we recalled the past, some bright spot might have glowed in your encrusted heart, and made you, at least for a little while, something like the man you were when we two sailed together; for I do not believe that you are yet entirely lost, Tom. It is true that you have changedthat you have become that idol of the world, a practi- cal, unimaginative, business manthat your delight is now in dingy counting- houses and mouldy ledgers, and that your conversation is always upon the price of stocks and corner-lots. But I be- lieve that there may yet be a tender spot in your soula relic of your other life; and that there are glimpses of the outer world which may yet have power to re- call you to yourself, if properly pre- sented to you. Hard and unromantic as your heart has been growing for the last ten years, I do not believe, Tom, that you could have stood upon the mizzen-top with me, and have heard me talk to you of past adventures, and have

Missen-Top Musings 45-50

1857.1 45 MIZZEN-TOP MUSINGS. THE staunch old ship Good Cheer lies at her wharf. She has come in from a long and tedious voyage, during which she has met with unusual buffet- ings, and she now seems resting from toil and danger, and recruiting her en- ergies for another adventurous tour of the world. As some old gentleman, when wearied with his long tramp through crooked, crowded, and dusty streets, rejoices to reach his home, and there, in order to enjoy his leisure to the utmost, unbuttons his coat and vest, stretches out his legs, and rests his ach- ing head against the wall, so does it seem to me that the ship Good Cheer has determined to make the most of a few short weeks of inactivity, and has thereto placed herself in negligent atti- tude and attire: stripping off her sails, folding up her bowsprit and studding- sail booms, loosening her rigging, open- ing her hatches, as though for breath, and throwing out upon the wharf the heavy cargo which for months has held her head pressed down into the waves. It is a pleasant sight to see the old ship again, even under the negligent air of easy contentment. She is far from being in trim order, to be sure; nor does she appear to the same advantage as when, once upon a time, I was wont to watch the spray fly to either side, as she dipped into the brine, or, leaning against the bulwarks, gazed upon the graceful swell of the distended sails, en- joying, all the while, the pleasant roll- ing motion. She lies now almost as lifeless as the dingy warehouses which line the shore. She floats in a pool of unhealthy-colored water, in which the sport of dolphins and albicores is usurped by the rotation of a wretched circle of cocoanut-husks, chips, and half-decayed lemon-rinds. Men, in mis- erable little punts, bump up against her sides, and she has no power to resent the familiarity. Hideous steam-tugs fly past, and snort defiance; but she is helpless as to reply. And, if the truth must be told, her deck is very dirty. But, even in the midst of such discour- aging influences, I can recognize here and there a trait to awaken my old fondness, and fill me with pleasant as- sociations of the past. Here, lashed behind the wheel, is the old double-cask life-preserver, upon which I have so often sat, and, leaning over, watched the play of the phosphorescent water of the tropics. There is the quarter-deck hand-rail, scratched from one end to the other with tallies of unnumbered games of cribbage. And there, up aloft, is the mizzen-top, where I so often sat, and read, or played, or mused, or watched the horizon, in the vain hope of being the first to signalize myself by discover- ing a strange sail. And now, moved by a passing whim, I leap over the quar- ter-rail, cling to the shrouds, and begin to ascend. It is harder work than it used to be. Either I have grown more portly and less elastic in my limbs, or else it is the fault of my long-skirted coat and high-heeled boots, which, in- deed, are not well adapted for climbing. But I resolutely persevere, rise from ratlin to ratlin, swing myself clum- sily over, and at length seat myself once more upon the mizzen-top as of old, with my right hand grasping the shrouds, and my feet hanging over the edge. * * * * * * Would you like to know, Tom, what I thought of when seated up there? I thought, at first, of you, and how that it might have been a good thing for you if you could have been there with me. I fancied that, as we recalled the past, some bright spot might have glowed in your encrusted heart, and made you, at least for a little while, something like the man you were when we two sailed together; for I do not believe that you are yet entirely lost, Tom. It is true that you have changedthat you have become that idol of the world, a practi- cal, unimaginative, business manthat your delight is now in dingy counting- houses and mouldy ledgers, and that your conversation is always upon the price of stocks and corner-lots. But I be- lieve that there may yet be a tender spot in your soula relic of your other life; and that there are glimpses of the outer world which may yet have power to re- call you to yourself, if properly pre- sented to you. Hard and unromantic as your heart has been growing for the last ten years, I do not believe, Tom, that you could have stood upon the mizzen-top with me, and have heard me talk to you of past adventures, and have 46 Mizzen- Top Musings. [July, looked with me down upon the deck which once so pleasantly rolled beneath us, and not have thought of something besides the number of chests of tea and barrels of flour our good ship could carry. Well, you were not there, Tom, and so I will tell you what I recalled. You may not read thisyou probably will not. I believe that of late your only reading has been the price-currents, and interest-tables, and that you affect to despise all lighter influences. But it may happen, by some strange chance, that you are at some time placed where you must necessarily see these pages in a car or stage, for instancewhere you can get no stock-lists, can find no commercial friends to talk with, and so must either listen to me, or be idle. And if that time does come, Tom, remember that I write this for you, with pity for your present fallen state, and a feeble hope that the only remaining tender spot in your heart may glow once more with something of its old native fire, and burn off the hard crust with which the world will soon smother every spark of pleasant reminiscence forever. And I thought, first, of the time when the brave little ship Good Cheer cast off from the shore and carried us out upon the ocean, which, until that day, we had never seen. Shall I recall that picture, Tom? We stood together at the stern. Around us, and, like our- selves, gazing towards our rapidly-dis- appearing home, were a number who were to be our companions for many a monthsome friends from our na- tive placea German, with long, red beard, fiat cap, and hooded traveling- cloaka Frenchman, short and with- ereda Scotchman, from the very bosom of the Tweedand many others. The ship, with her broad sails set square, gayly broke her way through the white- crested waves, which hissed madly against her sides, and then fell behind, baffled and frowning. At our right, far off, was a speckour pilot-boat, already in search of another prize. At our left, a long, low steamer trailed her wreath of smoke through the air. In advance, and rapidly drawing near, was an in- ward-bound bark, toilsomely beating towards the land, and rolling up and down in the yeasty sea-trough, until we could even see the yellow planking of her deck. Behind, and slowly sinking below the horizon, were the heights of Nevesink, with a few white dots at their feet, where cottages stood, and two white lines above, for light-house landmarks. And, as we gazed, the sun touched the mountain brows, a flood of brightness streamed up from the west for a few brief moments, and then sank into dim twilight; the swift-faced night came on and shut out the sight of our native shores, save where the glimmer of light-houses began to mark their po- sition, and the blue of the sea changed to blackness, while the waves seemed to leap and hiss more madly, and with a more sullen moan than before. There we stoodsad but excitedwith a tim- orous instant of dread throbbing in our hearts, and an exulting gleam of cour- age leaping to our eyeswith eyelids moistened with regret at the fading away of that land which we might never see again, nnd a secret joy swelling the soul at the thought of the wild and dar- ing life of excitement which our hopes had so lavishly spread out before us. And so the night closed in above us. Tom, I am afraid that if we once again stood thus together, and saw spread out before us the same rich glories of wave, and shore, and sky, you would only complain of the cold, draw your cloak more tightly about you, and go below. And now recall a certain tropical night, that even you long remembered. The air was warm, the waves light, and the wind feeble; and our good ship was slowly forging ahead, with a gentle, rocking, lullaby motion. From deck to truck she was one pile of canvas, nar- rowing gradually to the light sky-sail, which, with every swell, described its little arch upon the heavens; while, at the sides, the studding-sails projected far out, until, as a heavier roll than usual now and then swept along, they dipped their corners carefully in the water. Behind us, the vessel left a trail of fire, as she ploughed up the phos- phorescent sea; and, in the distance, the rugged crags of the little isle Fer- nando de Noronha darkly broke the line of the horizon, and added to the en- chantment of the scene. And, above all, the full moon rode the heavens, sil- vering the waves, gleaming upon the light sails, brightening up the freshly- scraped deck, and even, here and there, tinging with a mellow glow some jut- ting peak of the old distant isle. Clad in light garments, we sat upon the 1857.] Mizzen Top Musings. 47 spanker-boom, and bracing our backs against its tightly-stretched sail, yielded ourselves fully up to the romance of the hour. A group of passengers sat near usamong them the German and the Frenchman. Three or four had music- al instrumentsa flute, a guitar, and that favorite of the seas, an accordion; while there were others who rejoiced in well-tuned voices. The group essayed a lively negro melody; but the strain, though sweet, did not, somehow, suc- ceed, for the quickness of the air was hardly in symphony with the more lei- surely dreaming of our souls. But suddenly from the accordion came the first few plaintive notes of the German Hymn. The player merely rattled a few of the keys, as a forlorn experi- ment; but the effect was electric: at once it was felt that a chord was touched in every heartnt once all voices and instruments joined in, and the grand old tune swelled grander and louder, stretching over the unmeasured waters in holy concord, and rising in reverential harmony to the heavens, while the old ship herself seemed to catch the spirit of the thing, and to time her gentle rocking in unison. That old tune, written to be sung through the echoing arches of some time-honored cathedral, never yet was pealed forth with more heart-felt fervor than there, in that waste of watersGods own catlie- dm1; and, as the last strains died softly away over the deep, there was moisture in every eye, for, somehow, it led our thoughts to the home we had left be- hind us. Tom, I am afraid that now the chink of gold and the rattle of crisp bank- notes would bring more music to your ears than a seraphs song. And recall that day before we en- ~e red Rio, and how we stood upon the quarter-deck and gazed upon the beet- ling crags of Cape Frio, worn and rug- ged, and scarcely less distorted than the surf which splashed thirty feet high at the base! And how we sat upon the mizzen-top in the evening, as, in sight of the hospitable port, we forged slowly up and down the coast, guided by the light-house and the Southern Cross, and awaiting the hour when, with the break of morn, would come the breeze which would waft us safely in. And how, when the morning-breeze had come, we pressed the quarter-rail and joyfully watched the line of shore, as, while we drew nearer, it changed from blue to brown, until palm-trees could be dis- tinguished girting the rounded moun- tains, and villas nestling at their feet, and forts and shipping appeared, and, at last, as we passed the wondrous Sugar Loaf, we saw the city itself, crouching down amid the hills. And then think of that loveliest, most enrap- turing scene of alla picture which I have often in my dreams seen since when at night our anchor was dropped in the bay, and we lay before the town. rrhere was no moon, and by the feeble glimmer of the stars we could but faintly see the line of mountain-tops against the sky. Two miles off was the city, lit up as if for a festival. Each side, along the shore, were batteries, marked by three rows of eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two lights, set regularly within their port-holes. In advance of us lay a frigate; upon each side of us were barks, adventurously bound, like our- selves. The soft dip of oars was here and there heard, and the phosphores- cent sea was bright with the trails of unnumbered fish, sporting under our stern. We were all on deckfor who could stay below? An awning had been stretched across to shield us from the dew; lanterns had been hung about the rigging, and we broke forth into song after song, the chorus of each of which was gayly taken up by ship after ship, until the whole harbor rang with the melancholy complainings of Lucy Neal and Mary Blane, while the German attempted to roll forth a native ode, but was silenced by the obstrep- erous laughter of us others, who could not understand the language. And suddenly our noise was hushed; for, from our frigate, the band burst forth with our national anthem. We had all heard and liked it at home, but it never sounded half as grandly as then, when listened to in a foreign country. And as the last strains died away over the water, there came a gentle tink-tinkle here and there, echoed from one ships bell to another, in every variety of tone, but all invested with the same musical charm. It was the striking of eight bells; and as I recalled this picture, Tom, upon the mizzen-top, I sat for many minutes with closed eyes, and mused upon it. Do you remember, Tom, how, that night, we conjured up a scheme to leave our good old ship, and, in reckless ad- I, 48 Mizzen- Top Musings. [July, venturing, strike across that unexplored country, to meet her again at her Paci- fic port? We did not attempt it, to be sure; for our hastily-formed resolution soon died away, under the pleasant and luxuriant attractions of the city life; and it is as well that we forbore, since we would probably have never reached the other coast alive. But does it anger you, Tom, to think that there was a time when you did not count the cost of everything? That was a wilder but not unpleasant scene, when we passed through the Straits of le Maire. We were muffled to the ears in shaggy coats, with but- tons like plates; for it was very cold. The sun described a very low arch in the heavens, far to the north, and gilded the waves, without deigning to shed any genial warmth upon them. The sea was rough, and the vessel drove so un- easily before the wind, that we were obliged to grasp the quarter-rail to maintain our footing. Upon one side rose the coast of Terra del Fuego, a rounded mass of mountain-land, while, upon the other side, was Staten Land, a pile of giant snow-capped pinnacles and crags, like a crystallized, many-steepled city. The German stood, with one hand upon the rail, trying to copy the outlines of the scenery; but, as the ship pro- gressed, new crags came into view, and old ones assumed other positions, and continually defeated his efforts, until a gust of wind carried off his paper, and, as he loosened his hand from the rail to tear his beard, he lost his balance, and rolled upon the deck, uttering some wonderful, jaw-breaking Dutch oaths. So with the musical passenger, who had come upon deck to breathe defiance through his corriopean, and who was dashed from one side to the other, to the. imminent danger of his instrument. And while we shouted applause, the gathering mists rolled down the broken sides of Staten Landan arch of clouds gathered towards the south, forming a vast semicircle of brightness, streaked with unearthly radiationsthe sea and the wind rose higher together in a devils chorusthe good ship labored more un- easilythe clouds spread out apace, and descended, filling the air with drift- ing snowthe sun was blotted outthe land extinguished; and so we drove on into the jaws of the great Southern ocean, with no other company than the white albatrosses and cape-pigeons. which wheeled, screaming, to and fro in our track. That gale passed over before long, Tom, and the sunshine again appeared. When will your corroding heart feel a little of its former sunshine? Do you remember one day that we passed in Valparaiso? Not in the city itself, however. We had wandered a mile or two off, on the northern side of the bay, and the little white town had become indistinguishably confused in the distance. We could only detect, at the foot of the mountain, the long cus- tom-house, the plaza, the cathedral, a church or two, and, further up the hill, the round-topped cemetery chapel. The rest had become blended into a strag- gling, undefined line, trailing, like a ser- pent, along the waters edge. In front of us was the bay, with a few hundred vessels at anchor, at suitable distances, with their sails hanging loose, and their national bunting now and then lazily puffing out from the gaffs, and then, as the passing breeze died away, slowly sinking back into a loose roll. There was an English frigate at one side, and she, alone, manifested life; for it vas Coronation Day, and her lines were hung with flags, from truck to bowsprit, while her ports were pealing forth a broadside for a national salute. All other vessels were lifelessly basking in the hot sun, which poured down its hot rays until the air was scarcely a degree less than oppressive. We were not warm, however; for, in our walk, we had chanced upon a little cottage by the baynot comfortably built, perhaps, for it was of sun-dried brick, which gaped open in various places, but, upon the whole, rendered wonderfully pic- turesque, by thick vines, which trailed over the roof, and formed an arbor in front, and were loaded down with riclj, purple clusters. We sat in the shade of this arbor and ate our grapes, while, now and then, down a sloping road be- tween us and the bay, came trains of mules with tinkling bells upon their necks. And while we sat and eat, the daughter of the establishment appeared before us. She was a native Spanish beautybrown as a nutwell formed with beautifully-shaped bare feet, which her short dress could not hideand re- joicing in a bright black eye, and pearly teeth, and long, curling hair, which reached beyond her waist. She bore a guitar, and, taking her place opposite 1557.] Mizzen- Top Musings. 49 to us, sang. What her song was, we knew not. It might have been humor- ousit might have been of the lowest kind of Chulian minstrelsyperhaps it was a love madrigal designed to capti- vate us. Whatever it might be, we only knew that the strain was pretty and the voice sweet, and that those were tender and languishing eyes which glanced upon us; and we yielded to the fascination of the scene. You said that you would be content to remain for months and years in that rustic arbor, and gaze upon that beautiful bay, and eat those purple grapes, and listen to that soothing melody. Tom, what would Miss Janet Mac- Ninny, of Gramercy Square, with her Roman nose, her long, straight back, and her two hundred thousand dollars in state-sixes, say, if she knew that her devoted cavalier had ever uttered such a heresy? One more recollection. We were far from our ship, and up among the en- virons of the Sierra Nevadain a little mountain-begirt valley. Upon each side rose lofty hills, covered from top to bot- tom with giant pines. In the circle be- low, our little white tent was pitched, near a pleasant brook, and between the tent and the brook was our fire. Around this fire we would gathera company of six willing, friendly heartssheltered only by the moonlit boughs of the near- est pines, which stretched in friendly protection over us. In the indistinct light we could no longer mark the slen- der pass which served our valley for an outlet, and, at the first sight, we seemed as though shut in to dwell among those hills forever. But we were careless and jovial; nor did it trouble us that we were thousands of miles away from home, or that we were poor in pocket and shabby in attire, or that the vein of quartz, from which we had expected to reap such profits, had suddenly come to naught. With the mountain life, its reckless, adventurous spirit had come over us; we would plan new enterprises with unabated confidence; and, when we thought of absent friends, we would think of them as though to see them once again required but a quiet stroll around the corner. And as we would pile on the logs to make a ruddier flame, and pull our blankets closer about our shoulders, we would tell our several tales of past adventure. The German, who was still wi.th us, would dilate upon vor~. x.4 his career in the universities of his own country; and the Scotchman would tell about his native salmon-fishingand Burns and Schiller would be freely quotedand still we would sit around the fire, and pile on fresh logs, until the night would be far advanced. There may be greater bodily comfort by a well-arranged grate-fire in a tightly- closed room; but no civilized refine- ments can produce that jovial exhilara- tion of soul which an evening by a camp- fire, in the midst of wild mountain scenery, will awaken. So you then thought, Tom; but would you think so now? I fear not. You would say that this is all nonsense and foolish romance, and that the real busi- ness of man is to abandon all desultory wanderings, and work hard for comforts to be enjoyed in another manner. And you would point to your great stone house and shining carriage, and show me what I, too, might have had, if I had only chosen to do as you have done. In this you may be partly right, Tom. I will not deny that I may have too much failed in prosecuting some of the great schemes of life, and may have too often yielded my sense of duty to my keener sense of taste and romance. And it must be a pleasant thing to own a great house and a prancing pair of horses. But Tomdear Tomwhile I thus sat upon the mizzen-top and mused, I could not but think that there might be a welcome medium between my listless life and your energetic ab- sorption; and that a few of the pictures in your gallery, or a few of the pieces of rich plate in your closet, might well be exchanged for the ability, once in a while, to turn aside from daily care and enjoy a little of the freshening spirit of your other days. * * * , * * Halloa, there !You, sir ! I look over the edge of the mizzen- top and see an angry, purple-faced mate shaking his knotty fist, as he calls up at me. He is not the mate with whom I sailed, and with whom, upon the night-watches, I shared my cig4rs, but another newer mate who knows me not. Come down from there! he shouts. Who the deuce told you to go up? Is this your ship, Id like to know 1 Slowly and awkwardly I descend, while the mate still continues to swear 50 The Baby-Exterminator. [July, and shake his fist, and a group of little farewell volley of jeers from the little boys collect on the wharf to laugh at boys. And so I pass, crest-fallen, me. I reach the deck, commence aa along the wharf and up a narrow street, apology, which is drowned by a new until the great stone warehouses inter- torrent of oaths; and I step upon the vene, and the friendly mizzen-top is lost wharf and walk away, followed by a to view. THE BABY-EXTERMINATOR. I HAVE been frequently importuned to state the cause and extent of my rupture with that worthy and widely- Qsteemed personage, the Reverend Doc- tor Armageddon. Although our es- trangement is now over, and the broken chain of friendship between us has linked again, the papers still teem with annoying remarks and surmises on the unfortunate event. I propose to claim justice, both for him and myself, by the present explanation. I am conscious of having done nothing to deserve the public reproofs which I have lately re- ceived; and as for him, his real offense, if such it may be called, was venial com- pared with the calumnies which have been propagated against him. I shall not fear prolixity in my statements, as I know that the world will readily par- don it in one who has sat much at the feet of the copious, the inexhaustible Armageddon. Going back, after the doctors own thorough manner, to the foundation of things, I observe that our acquaintance commenced in 1850. It always seems to me, however, as if I had known him for at least eight or ten centuries. This impression of the antiquity of our friend- ship is produced, I conclude, by the character of his sermons, which gener- ally begin with the deluge or the crea- tion, or the fall of Lucifer, and describe those veteran events with the pictur- esque minuthe of an eye-witness. Hav- ing helped him name the beasts, birds, and fishes at least a hundred times; having been turned out of the Garden of Eden in his company to the full as often; having run away with him, over and over again, from the roarings of the first carnivorously-disposed lion; having built manifold arks under his direction, and filled them with carefully-selected menageries; having been repeatedly confounded and dispersed in his pros- ence for erecting the tower of Babel; not to mention innumerable long and interesting passages before him through the Red Sea, I naturally feel as if I had been acquainted with him a great while. This sense of time immemorial made our intimacy doubly delightful to me, and would have prevented me from ever breaking it, but for what I foolishly considered an extreme provocation. The doctor was already a widowem when our friendship commenced. How long since his wife died I do not know; and I never alluded to her in his pres- ence, lest the subject might be a sore one to him; for how could I be sure that she was not one of those very daughters of the old Canannites against whom I had heard him inveigh so fer- vently? He was considered by most people to be sixty years old; but on this point I naturally remaia in a re- spectful uncertainty. It is singular, by the way, how I speak of the doctor in the past tease, as if he were long since dead and buried. Fortunately for the erring children of mankind, it is not so. But I always mention him thus, in- stinctively, on account of the odor of antiquity which his venerable conver- sation dispenses. The doctor had no children except certain spiritual ones, whom he often alluded to, but whom I never heard of from any other person. Towards earth- ly, ordinary, flesh-and-blood children, he seemed to entertain a very remark- able dislike. Babies invariably squalled so frightfully under his christenings, that I have suspected him of secretly pinching them. Many parents openly said that he used too much water, and applied it with unnecessary savageness. Indeed, this impression finally became so strong and general, that most of the prolific families in his congregation re- moved, one by one, to other churches,

The Baby-Exterminator 50-58

50 The Baby-Exterminator. [July, and shake his fist, and a group of little farewell volley of jeers from the little boys collect on the wharf to laugh at boys. And so I pass, crest-fallen, me. I reach the deck, commence aa along the wharf and up a narrow street, apology, which is drowned by a new until the great stone warehouses inter- torrent of oaths; and I step upon the vene, and the friendly mizzen-top is lost wharf and walk away, followed by a to view. THE BABY-EXTERMINATOR. I HAVE been frequently importuned to state the cause and extent of my rupture with that worthy and widely- Qsteemed personage, the Reverend Doc- tor Armageddon. Although our es- trangement is now over, and the broken chain of friendship between us has linked again, the papers still teem with annoying remarks and surmises on the unfortunate event. I propose to claim justice, both for him and myself, by the present explanation. I am conscious of having done nothing to deserve the public reproofs which I have lately re- ceived; and as for him, his real offense, if such it may be called, was venial com- pared with the calumnies which have been propagated against him. I shall not fear prolixity in my statements, as I know that the world will readily par- don it in one who has sat much at the feet of the copious, the inexhaustible Armageddon. Going back, after the doctors own thorough manner, to the foundation of things, I observe that our acquaintance commenced in 1850. It always seems to me, however, as if I had known him for at least eight or ten centuries. This impression of the antiquity of our friend- ship is produced, I conclude, by the character of his sermons, which gener- ally begin with the deluge or the crea- tion, or the fall of Lucifer, and describe those veteran events with the pictur- esque minuthe of an eye-witness. Hav- ing helped him name the beasts, birds, and fishes at least a hundred times; having been turned out of the Garden of Eden in his company to the full as often; having run away with him, over and over again, from the roarings of the first carnivorously-disposed lion; having built manifold arks under his direction, and filled them with carefully-selected menageries; having been repeatedly confounded and dispersed in his pros- ence for erecting the tower of Babel; not to mention innumerable long and interesting passages before him through the Red Sea, I naturally feel as if I had been acquainted with him a great while. This sense of time immemorial made our intimacy doubly delightful to me, and would have prevented me from ever breaking it, but for what I foolishly considered an extreme provocation. The doctor was already a widowem when our friendship commenced. How long since his wife died I do not know; and I never alluded to her in his pres- ence, lest the subject might be a sore one to him; for how could I be sure that she was not one of those very daughters of the old Canannites against whom I had heard him inveigh so fer- vently? He was considered by most people to be sixty years old; but on this point I naturally remaia in a re- spectful uncertainty. It is singular, by the way, how I speak of the doctor in the past tease, as if he were long since dead and buried. Fortunately for the erring children of mankind, it is not so. But I always mention him thus, in- stinctively, on account of the odor of antiquity which his venerable conver- sation dispenses. The doctor had no children except certain spiritual ones, whom he often alluded to, but whom I never heard of from any other person. Towards earth- ly, ordinary, flesh-and-blood children, he seemed to entertain a very remark- able dislike. Babies invariably squalled so frightfully under his christenings, that I have suspected him of secretly pinching them. Many parents openly said that he used too much water, and applied it with unnecessary savageness. Indeed, this impression finally became so strong and general, that most of the prolific families in his congregation re- moved, one by one, to other churches, 1857.] The Baby-Exterminator. 51 where their multiplying little ones could obtain p atronymics without so much unnecessary anguish. Thus, al- though his tabernacle was styled The Church of the Pilgrim Mothers, there was scarcely a child to be found in the whole phalanx of its overflowing slips and galleries; and his audience con- sisted chiefly of young men, young la- dies, elderly maidens, confirmed bache- lors, contented widowers, and a ~von- derful number of widows, whose sons were away at school, or already in Harvard College. Nor did the doctor ever trouble himself to preach sermons of consolation for those who might have been called upon to part with any little responsibility. If he spoke of such be- reavements at all, it was in a tone of the sweetest cheerfulness and even con- gratulationas if burying a baby must be rather a deli~htful pastime than oth- erwise. He often mentioned children as snares and little stumbling-blocks laying a siguificant accent on this last epithet, as if he would have called them little stumbling blockheads. I need not n~ention that his sermons were consid- ered models of orthodox instruction by his peculiar congregation. All the children who had the honor of knowing Doctor Armageddon regarded him with respectful terror, and, I grieve to add, hatred. His infantile neighbors scampered off at the report of his com- ing, as if he were that very lion who is said to go about seeking what he may devour. When he was once inveigled into preaching at the orphan asylum, his bereaved hearers were as still as mice listening to the midnight utterances of a grimalkin. My first and only difficulty with this learned, orthodox, and excellent divine occurred in the summer of 1855. I made a call one afternoon at his house, to converse anew with him on the sub- ject of Noahs port. I do not mean the harbor from which the patriarch is sup- posed to have sailed, but the wine by which he was afterwards so unfortu- nately overtaken. The doctor has a fine brand of port, which he suspects of being that veritable article. An Irish serving-man, Peter Riley, met me at the door, and told rae that his master was not at home. I turned away, meaning to saunter down to the Athenmum, but paused a moment on the steps to watch a pretty group of children. In front of the small crowd trotted a red-headed urchin, whom I knew to be the only heir of Professor Glace, the doctors right-hand neighbor. Then came a nursery-maid, drawiug a baby-cart containing two nurslings of three months old, apparently. Then came another nursery-maid, with anoth- er baby-cart, and another pair of bant- hugs, perhaps twelve months old. Then came a third nursery-maid, bearing in her arms a couple of two-year-old whip- sters, who sniveled faintly, as if rather used up by previous walking. Then came a fourth nursery-maid, marshal- ing before her half-a-dozen youngliugs, of both sexes, all between the ages of three and six. There was such a pleas- ing uniformity in the faces and dresses of the entire dozen of minors, that it occurred to me at once that they must be the production of a single prolific family. They were all so pretty, too, and made their little progress so gen- teelly, that I was smitten with admira- tion, and began to think it would be a delightful bargain to exchange my own barren bachelorhood for a similar or even smaller procession of such little seraphs. But suddenly the liliputian multi- tude was stricken with an evident ter- ror. Master Glace took to his heels towards his own house, and never ceased ringing at the door till he had gained admittance. The four nursery-maids hurried on in the other direction, drag- ging the small chaises along with such energy that a couple of squalhing up- sets took place on the pavement. The six children on foot rushed after them with a simultaneous screech, and the whole assemblage disappeared confus- edly through the court-yard gate of the next dwelling. Faix, sir, Im a thinkia the master be a comm, said a voice behind me. I turned, and beheld Peter in the door- way, lie having remained, probably, to wink at the nursery-maids. What makes you think so ? I asked. Blazes, thin, sir, he replied, with a grin, and didnt ye see the childer scamper ? I looked up the street, and, sure enough, there was Doctor Armageddon. Striding as rapidly as the brevity of his legs would permit, lie held his cane over his right shoulder, in the style of a sa- bre, while a fearful grimace distorted his usually dove-like countenance. Ho was, evidently, very disagreeably ex 52 The Baby-Exterminator. [July, cited, for in passing the gate through which the children had vanished, he dealt it a tremendous thwack with his stick. Such a scream of terror respond- ed as I imagined might come from a city given over to assault. My reverend friend fairly snorted with a stern satis- fact.ion, and, walking back to the gate, saluted it with a second violent battery. Another chorus of yelps arose, but fainter this time, as if the children had already entered the side-door of their domicil, and considered themselves in comparative safety. During these events I had paused on the steps in a bewilderment, not know- ing whether to remain and greet my esteemed acquaintance, or to fly before his bludgeon. Peter, meantime, had shut the door behind me, and retreated into the dwelling. Good afternoon, Doctorfine day, I said at last, cau- tious not to hint at his excitement. Ah, my friendmy dear friend ! he replied with his usual suavity, the moment he recognized me, I did not see youactually I did notI was so taken up with these little vermin. But walk in, walk in, I pray you. I hope you have been blessed with your usual good health. Thank younever better, said I. How are you, my dear doctor ? Oh! miserably, my friend, he groaned, as we entered the house and ascended to his study. I am dread- fully afflicted; my burden is greater than I can bear. I glanced at his hat, and, observing that there was no weed on it, asked him if he had lost any of his congregation. Lost! he fairly shrieked; no gainedand such a gain! Oh, my dear sir, there is a certain Mr. Peppergrass come to the city, and joined my church, and taken a house next to mine; and how many children do you think ho has? Twelve, sir! twelveall twins, and all under six years of age. He throws doublets every time, sirto use a phrase of my backgammon-playing boyhood. My dear sir, just think of such an enormous-~--such an intolerable fecundity! I dont wonder they burnt John Rogers, with his twelve children and one at the breast. A man who will have as many children as that, deserves to be burnthe does, indeed, sir, with all his progeny about him ! So those are the little Peppergrass- es ? said I. I saw them go by the door. It looked like a bedful of the plant, I acknowledge. A bedful: yes, sir, six bedfuls ! shouted the doctor, without recognizing my pun. Not counting the nursery- maids, either, he added, who make as much noise as if they, too, wore bibs and tuckers. Cant you cork up your windows on that side ? I asked. No, sir; I cant cork them upat least not tight enough, he replied. If this house was a great bottle, with sides a fathom thick, and a stopper as long as Goliahs spear, those young ones would manage to scream into it and disturb me. Well, they will only drive you the closer to your duties, said I, meaning to be jocosely consolatory. You escape them, of course, when you are in the pulpit. Far from it, my friend, he return- ed, sadly. Mrs. Peppergrass will send them all to church, and every Sunday the maids have to carry several of them into the vestibule. I havent enjoyed a quiet sermon since this family united with us, sir. Every week or so, too, I am called on to baptize a pair of them. I dont know how many of them have wailed in my arms already, and Pep- pergrass has been here short of a month. He paused to shake his head again, and then added, in a low, horror-stricken tone: Mrs. Peppergrass expects to ho ill again. I suppose it will be a round dozen this time. The question natur- ally arises, where is she going to stop 7 Well, Peppergrass may move, I suggested. Bought the house, he replied, with sententious despair. And you: cant you move? I in- quired. My dwelling is the church parson- age. I fear that I could not leave it without parting from my flock, and I hope I know my duty as a pastor better than that, responded the doctor, in a tone of solemn emotion. Ali! then I am afraid you must stay and suffer, said I. I shall stayat least until I have a more emphatic call otherwheres; but we will see who is going to suffer, he muttered, with a countenance full of un- explnined meaning. But, doctor, I am afraid that I 1857.] The Baby-Exterminator. 53 interrupt your labors, was my next re- mark. The moments of a clergyman are precious. I must leave you to finish this fresh manuscript. Not at all; dont go, said he, earn- estly, at the same time pitching the manuscript in question under the table. Its only a sermon on the damnation of infants. I could write the whole thiug in an hour. My head and heart are full of the subject, sir. He pushed me with kind insistance into a chair, and then walked across the room to a closet. I thought he was going after his old port, and followed him with my blandest smile of esteem and affection; but, instead of producing one of those luscious crimson decanters, he hauled out a mysterious bundle, which, at first sight, seemed to he a mere confusion of tangled rope and leather. Bringing it forward, he care- fully unfolded it over a chair, so as to show me that it consisted of a curious combination of straps, nooses, buckles, pincers, and pulleys. What do you think of that? he asked. What is it ? said I. I call it a Baby-exterminator, ho replied, with a triumphant chuckle. Is it possible ! I exclaimed. How does it work 7 Mounting the table with remarkable alacrity, he took the machine in his hands and threw it deftly across the room at an empty mop-stand, which occupied one corner. I was thunderstruck to perceive that the noose fell precisely over the stand and clasped it, while a couple of large pincers, like hands, closed on the wooden legs with rapidity and evident tenacity. Giving a sniff of victorious exhilaration, the doctor hauled violently on a cord, and drew the mahogany captive to himself like a whale dragging an entangled whale- boat. I clapped my hands with admira- tion. Its a sure catch, said he, proudly. I have brought it to absolute perfec- tion. I tiever miss with it now. That noose will inevitably go round a childs neck, and keep it from squalling; while the pincers grab its legs, and hold them from kicking.~~ After examining, with intense inter- est, the ingenious mechanism of the instrument, I asked the doctor why he had not used it on his troublesome little neighbors, and whether he could possi bly have had any conscientious scruples on the subject. Not at allof course not, said he, emphatically, as if surprised at the question. The fact simply is, that I have but just got the instrument to work to my satisfaction. But you do intend thus to use it 7 continued I. Unquestionably I do, lie replied. Why, sir, I am pushed to it by my profound sense of ministerial duty. I cannot be faithful to my poor hungering flock at present. How can I compose profitable discourses with that uproar? Hark! do you hear that? I did hear certainly, for it seemed as if a whole orphan asylum and foundling hospital to boot had been emptied into the next yard. The doctor softly raised one window, while I peeped out of an- other. Although it was twilight, we could distinctly see the legion of little Peppergrasses stampeding about the narrow court in all the wild, noisy, happy turbulence of childhood. Pres- ently a knot of them gathered, with gay whoops, directly under the window occupied by my reverend acquaintance. Now is the time, he muttered, with calm resolution; and I must own that I was startled to see him grasp the Ex- terminator. Hold on, doctor, till I can get out of the house ! I exclaimed, but so spell- bound that I could not quit my posi- tion. The doors are opencant you go 7 said he, sharply. His agitation had made him forget for once his usual mild and dignified courtesy. Down went the Exterminator among the heedless young ones, while I gave a wild hurrahnot of exultation, but of uncontrollable and even painful excitement. The next mo- ment the doctor was pulling furiously at the cord, and a small dark mass was floundering up the side of the house, like a trout bouncing on a fish-line. I waited for nothing further, but, clapping on my hat, rushed across the room, fell down stairs, and bolted into the street, where I never stopped running until I had reached my lodgings. The next day, dining at the Tremont, I met a New York friend of mineMr. Punch Punnerwell known in Fifth Avenue as a wit and conversationalist. He told me that a Mr. Peppergrass, a New Yorker lately removed to Boston, had just lost a very interesting child in 54 The Baby-Exterminator. [July, some mysterious manner, and that the papers were agog with it. I affected ignorance of the name of Peppergrass, and subsequently managed to inform Punch that I had passed the previous evening in my room. The next even- ing he and I called on Miss Schottische, the authoress of the Narrow, Narrow House. She seemed to be sweetly melancholy, and I asked her the cause of her depression. Oh, said she, I have just been attending such a delightful funeral! Reverend Doctor Armageddon officiated in the most charming manner. He is certainly a vastly edifying preacher; and so cheerful, too, in his piety. You two gentlemen must go with me and hear him next Sunday. Will you? Ah! I have your promise. Remember now. You are sad truants, I am afraid, of a Sunday. Who was the new tenant installed in the narrow, narrow house ? asked Punch. She smiled graciously at this allusion to her admirable romance, and replied: An interesting child of a Mr. Mr. Peppergrass, I believe, the name was. I do not know the person. I went solely to hear the doctor. I would not recognize the name of Peppergrass, of course; and in fact, I left the authoress in her narrow house (twelve feet front,) as soon as possible. On Sunday I went to the doctors church, as agreed upon. My object was not so much to keep the appoint- ment with Miss Schottisehe, as to pre- vent any unpleasant suspicions which might arise, if I solicitously kept away from those Peppergrasses. The learn- ed pastor gave us a sermon that was well worth the lengthened trouble of lis- tening to it. To my surprise, he did not at all maintain the eternal perdition of infants; quite the contrary, ho thought them much surer of future happiness than the adult part of the population; and he naturally inferred that the sooner they got out of the world, the better for thenmelves, and in fact, for everybody. He spoke lenient- ly of Pharaoh, who has been so much censured for his attempt. to abate the number of the Isruelitish bantlings; and only condemned him for having made a distinction in favor of the sons, which, he said, proved the low estima- tion in which the fair-sex was held by the Egyptians. He was severe upon Herod for his motives in commanding the massacre of the innocents; but, concluding that they had all gone to heaven, noted it as a remarkable in- stance of good being brought out of evil. He enlarged upon the advantages of Chinese women over the male Celes- tials, in the fact that infanticide among them is chiefly practiced on girls, who thereby are brought into the kingdom in abundance, while the boys are left to grow up in a damnable idolatry of their grandfathers. He recommended that missionaries to the Hyson Skin coun- tries should be instructed to apply themselves chiefly to men, in order to equalize the opportunities of the two sexes. In short, his discourse was an admir- able one; and I was proportionably an- noyed at not being able to hear the whole of it. Unfortunately, eight of the little Peppergrasses, with their father and mother and three nursery- maids (I had nearly said dairy-maids), occupied the two slips just in front of me. Ten or twelve infantile optics were perpetually staring Miss Schot- tische, Mr. Punner and myself out of countenance. After a while, Mr. Pun- ner made a series of grimaces at the youngest one, which set him a crying, which set three-quarters of the others a crying. Then Mr. Peppergrass and the three dairy-maids carried them into the vestibule, where they bawled with great spirit for fifteen or twenty minutes before they could be brought back again. On being reinstated, the biggest one got up on his seat and stuck out his lips vindictively at Mr. Punner. At last, one of the dairy-maids hauled him down, and in so doing let him drop on the floor, upon which he screamed so outrageously, that Mrs. Peppergrass pacified him with a cookey and allo~ved him to crumble half of it into our slip. I must not forget to mention that two of them were christened, and bellowed like lunatics under the operation. Punch whispered in my ear that the minister went at them as savagely as a washerwoman at a dirty blanket. I really pitied Doctor Armageddon, and regretted that he could not take his Ex- terminator into the pulpit with him, or, at least, have it used by a sexton from the gallery. I left the church resolved to have as little as possible to do with those Pep- pergrasses, unless it were in aiding my 1857.] The Baby-Exterminator. 55 reverend friend to weed them out of existence. My mortification may be conceived, therefore, when, on my next visit to our club, I was introduced to Mr. P. himself, as a new member who needed my polite attentions. I found him a very sociable, gentlemanly per- son, but the most besotted of fathers; and I could hardly keep from laughing outright, to hear him boast of his chil- dren and tell how much everybody liked them. We were in conversation over the late inexplicable demise of his seventh boy, when I was alarmed by seeing the patriarch of our institution, Doctor Armageddo~ himself, enter the saloon, and approach us. Now, thought I, there will be a scene; the feelings of the doctor will be embittered beyond endurance by the sight of our new mem- ber; he will be distant, sarcastic, crush- ing, or, perhaps, openly uncivil; he can hardly help making the interview unpleasant to Peppergrass. Never in my life was I more mis- taken. Our reverend instructor ad- vanced to the guest and greeted him with the most benignant cordiality. He inquired about his health, about the health of Mrs. Peppergrass, about the healths of the whole brood of sub-Pep- pergrasses. He made a few appropri- ate remarks on the late affliction, enlarging pathetically on the mysteri- ous yet merciful nature of dispensations in general. I was enchanted with his forgiving, uncomplaining deportment, and reflected with emotion on the power of mere simple orthodoxy to make every action lovely and noble. Pepper- grass went away equally pleased with our revered friends conversation, ob- serving to me, as we walked home to- gether, how much happiness he expect- ed to draw from the neighborhood of a so truly paternal divine. The doctor, by the way, kindly warned me against the influence of Peppergrass, who, he said, was somewhat lax if not unitarian in his doctrinal beliefs. I was now so perfectly satisfied with our good Armageddon that I resolved to introduce my friend Punner to him. Under a promise of secrecy, I gave an account of the Exterminator to Punch, who, as I expected, expressed, even to enthusiasm, a bachelors naturni delight over the invention. We called at the doctors house, and found him in his study just finishing a sermon on the two she-bears which avenged the insult to Elishab. He welcomed us with the utmost simplicity nnd cordiality. Walk in, sir. How are you, my old friend? he said to me. Mr. Punner, I believe, he continued. No need of an introduction. I have long known you by reputation, Mr. Punner, and recognized you at once last Sunday by the admirable portrait of your new boots in the Illustrated Gothamite. I am delighted to become acquainted with you personally. I welcome you to Boston, sir. We sat down and commenced a cheerful conversation on the vices of fashionable society, which I found that Punch regretted exceedingly. Doc- tor, I said at the first break in the dia- lonue, I have mentioned your Exter- minator in confidence to Mr. Punner; and he is charmed with the idea. Would you allow him, as a great favor, to glance at the exquisite mechanism of the instrument 7 Why, certainlywith the greatest pleasure, he replied, rising and pro- ducing the machine from its closet. Punch examined it and retixamined it with bursts of admiring astonishment. Really, Doctor, said he, you ought to tnke out a patent for this. It would be immensely profitable. Every un- married man would want one. I shall take out no patent, re- sponded our friend gravely. I do not wish to lny any possible restrictions up- on the extensive use of the invention. It is my desire to do, in the brief tinie that remains to me, all the good that I can. Punch and I both praised his gener- ous public spirit, and said that we should take advantage of his kindness to order Exterminators for ourselves. Well, and how do you get on with your labors 7 I inquired. Any nib- bles lately 7 I have surpassed my warmest ex- pectations, he replied smiling. I have thinned out the little Pepper- grasses amazingly. Be kind enough to step this way, gentlemen, and I will show you my last triumph. Punch followed him eagerly to a chair in one corner, on which lay something folded up in a blanket. As I suspected what he had to exhibit, and am troubled with weak nerves, I did not attempt to share the spectacle. Is it done for ? I heard Punch ask with deep interest. Gone ! replied the doctor solemnly. 56 Presently they returned with mild, serious faces to the centre-table, where Punch fell anew to examining and admiring the Exterminator; trying numerous experiments with it, lassoing all the chairs in succession, and looking into the neighboring court to see if he could discover a stray Peppergrass, junior. The doctor treated us to some of his Mt. Ararat port, and we passed an hour in the most delightful conversa- tion that I ever enjoyed, although it was frequently interrupted by Punch, who could not keep his hands off that fascinating, but somewhat noisy, Exter- minator.. Come, gentlemen, said our kind host at last; give yourselves the trouble to walk down stairs with me, and look at a demijohn full of the water of the Jordan. It has just been sent me by one of our missionaries in Jeri- cho. Thank you, doctor, I prefer the port, said Punch. I have seen the ,Jordan itself, and didnt like the looks of the antiquated fluid. Ill stay here and amuse myself with your machine. I followed the doctor down stairs to his bedroom, and regarded the favored demijohn with suitable veneration. He offered me a drink of it; and I was agreeably surprised to find that the water of the Jordan has precisely the flavor of fine old Irish whisky. My friend smiled as he saw my evident pleasure at this discovery; and we then pledged each other repeatedly, not for- getting to toast the Exterminator. As I set down the glass for the third time we were startled by hearing an extraor- dinary rumpus overhead in the study, where something seemed to be floun- dering violently on the floor, kicking outrageously as if with boot-heels, knocking the chairs over and pushing the table about. I fancy, observed the doctor, that your friend has hauled in another of those Pepper- grasses4 After he had corked up the demijoha of Jordan water, and put it away care- fully, we took each other by the arm and walked up stairs. On opening the study door I was paralyzed with affright to see Mr. Punner in a heap under the table, bound hand and foot, black in the face, his eyes and tongue protruding in short, completely throttled, to all ap- pearance, in the iron grasp of the Ex- terminator. ~ Bless me ! cried the The Baby-Exterminator. [July, doctor. What a mischief that ma- chine has been doing! I am afraid the poor man is over Jordan. We hauled our struggling friend out by his hampered legs, unclasped the noose with the greatest difficulty, and, leaving the pincers on his andes for the present, proceeded to dash his face with ice-water. I cannot describe the anxiety with which I watched his pur- ple phiz, nor the delight with which I hcard him give a whimper of returning consciousness. His first words were to ask us to put a little more port into the water, and when we gave him a glass of the pure grape~he drank it off with a visible satisfaction, which convinced me that he still had his senses. As soon as the doctor had completely un- harnessed him from the Exterminator, he rose, and thanked heaven, with tears in his bulging eyes, that he was a grown man, and not a baby. His next move was to take his hat and make a bee-line for the doorway. My dear sir, dont go ! exclaimed the doctor, earnestly. I beg you to stayat least as long as you can find it agreeable. You are not trespassing upon my time, I assure you. Dont find it agreeable, returned Punch. Im afraid of trespassing on my own time. I dont want to cut my days any shorter than I can help. I wont stay in the room another minute with that confounded machine. Why, I didnt try it on; I only hit it with my foot, somehow, and it flew up and choked me like a boa-constrictor. I was almost done for before I could think what was the matter with me. I tried to scream for assistance, but T couldnt fetch the first yelp. He marched off without further cere- mony, and I felt constrained to accom- pany him, not knowing yet but that he might have a stroke of apoplexy. He did go down stairs a little unsteadily, but I rather think it was only the port and water. As soon as we reached the pavement, he said vehemently: I dont like that infernal Exterminator. Better luck another time, I re- sponded; a miss is as good as a mile. May be so, said he; but it isnt as comfortable. How is my shirt- collar? All tumbled up, said I. I thought so, he replied; blast the Exterminator! I tell you what, I 1857.] The Baby-Exterminator. 57 shant order one; its a dangerous thing to have in ones lodgings; it might finish a fellow up some time when there was nobody by. Catch me at that reverend gentlemans house again, either! All I wish is, that the next inquiry-meeting he has there may be composed of detective policemen. My dear man, I interposed, you ought not to quarrel with Doctor Arma- geddon on account of this mere acci- dent, which might happen to any one. I dont mean to quarrel with him, said Punch, loosening his cravat, and wiping the perspiration from his face. I should be afraid to quarrel with him; he might exterminate me. But its pre- cisely because such an accident might happen to any one, at any time, that I dont care to be intimate with him. You step in to see himstumble over a stray Exterminatorit collars you like a thou- sand policemen, and there you area gone goose. Then theres another idea: suppose he should have a hallucination, and take a fellow for a baby; or sup- pose he should acquire a fondness for the thing, and pitch into us adults, after he has done with all the juveniles. No, no! Ive had one narrow squeak of it that is, if I could have squeaked at alland I am satisfied, if you aintas the shark said to the sailor, after he had eaten him. I found it impossible to overcome Punners sudden disgust at the Exter- minator; and, in point of fact, he left Boston for New York, by early train of the following morning. Calling on the doctor a week after, he met me with a radiant countenance. Have you heard the news ? said he; Peppergrass is gone! sold his house and moved into the country. Lost six of his children by apoplexy, and con- cluded that the air of Boston was bad for them. Mysterious dispensation, youll allow, he added, with a pleasant smile; but all for the best, as it ap- pears at last. Well, doctor, I hope you have done, said I; for I was actually star- tled by that immense mortality which he mentioned with such calm satisfaction. Very nearly, he replied. I am after little Glace, now. I mean to clear the premises, while I am about it. Doctor, dont ! I remonstrated; ~Professor Glace has only one child, and that a very puny one, likely to die of itself. Try to get along with it a little while, I beg of you. Just consider Mrs. Glace. True, said he. It is to be re- gretted that she has such an attachment to the wretched little object; it is an awful snare to her; I feel impelled to remove him on her account. Besides, he is the only brat in the neighborhood, and is, of course, an immense temptation to me. But we must overcome our tempta- tions, I urged, warmly. I will, said he; I will overcome little Glace. After some sharp controversy, which only served to convince me that I was a child in argument compared to him, I walked back to my lodgings in the Tre- moat. Then it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to warn the professor of the danger which menaced his lim- ited offspring, and leave him to judge whether it should be averted or no. I set off on this errand immediately, and had reached the corner of the block on which he lived, when I observed the in- cautious youth in question stealing un- der the doctors eaves, apparently with the design of recovering his football. It was so dim evening by this time that I only faintly distinguished an object which seemed to drop upon him from a second-story window. I hastened on, and gained the steps of the house, just in time to see little Glace meander up the wall like a wizard or a gigantic liz- ard, and disappear through the open casement. I went in on the spur of the moment, and had an animated altercation with the doctor. I threatened to denounce himfor I was in reality greatly in- censedbut he defied me with such a virtuous tranquillity, that I withdrew my menace in admiration. We did not part friends, however; our misunder- standing was serious, and lasted a fort- night. It was aggravated by the cool composure with which he afterwards addressed some consolatory remarks to Mrs. Glace in my presencea compo- sure which I then looked on as jesuitical effrontery, but which I have frequently heard mentioned by others with loud commendation. This, on my word of honor, is the whole of my quarrel with Dr. Arma- geddon. Every other account of it, whether as regards its cause, nature, or duration, is downright falsehood, if not 58 A Few Words on Fairy Tales. [July, slander, and should be at once frowned upon by an intelligent and virtuous public. I will state, in conclusion, what I have hinted at before, that both Mr. Punner and I have beea led to re- gret our estrangement from this esti- mable divine, and have been fortunate enough to regaia his learned, cheerful, and amiable intimacy. He is, at pres- ent, I am pleased to say, the happiest of men, as he has no children within a block of him, and no person under six- teen years of age in his congregation. I had just finished my manuscript, when I was surprised by a call from that kindly young minister, Mr. Henry Howard. I immediately read the whole thing to him, and frankly requested his opinion thereupon. I suppose, of course, that it is an allegory, said be. My dear siran allegory! Oh! you are too severe upon me, I replied. Certainly notit is the most serious fact, I assure you. how, in the name of common sense, came you to imagine that it was an allegory ? I took it for granted, said he, that the babies of the story merely symbolized the feelings and interests of our fellow-creatures. I inferred that your friend, Doctor Armageddon, had shown himself selfishly indifferent to those feelings and interests whenever they came in conflict with his own com- fort or purposes. Thus understood, the narrative is endurable; otherwise it is a tissue of atrocities, only fit to amuse a New Zealander. Mr. Howard, I remonstrated, let me warn you against this insidious sys- tem of turning plain facts into tinkling symbols. It is dangerous to a young minister, and dangerous to those who repose confidence in him. Why, sir, you could decompose the solid doctrine of election with your subtle acid of alle- gories. I beg you to believeas I would beg all mankind to believethat what I have stated in this narration is the very gravest and exactest reality. A FEW WORDS ON FAIRY TALES. AWAY with that huge tome of Jeremy Bentham, and bring us our child- hoods library. Wave the wand and summon up the dramatis pcrsonc-e of our childhoods tales! Come one, come all good fairies with wands of gold and gifts of wishesmost dire ogres stamp- ing along in seven-league bootsgiants, vast fellows, but some of them harm- less, for (quoth the chronicler) they were Welsh giants, othersalas, for the Lands End !cruel, for they were Cornish giantsdwarfs who ap- peared on the battlements of enchanted castles, winding enchanted hornsbeau- tiful princesses who pined within their mystic wallsbeasts who were princes in disguiseand, alas, princes who were beasts in reality! Bring them all be- fore us. Genii bottled up in submarine vases, from the Eastgrotesque, funny little Wieland-like men, who lived in under-ground palaces beneath the roots of the pines, and the oaks of the Brocken misshapen elves, working cunningly in metals, and quafling mend, the ima- ginings of the Scalds of Scandinavia speaking birds, singing water (out on your singing mice), slippers of glass; and, by your leave, fair Cinderella, coaches sliced from pumpkins! And shall we not have Aladdins lamp? Hang it on the fairy bean-stalk you see shooting to the skies, beside the roes egg of Sinbad the Sailor. Yet disturb not the small birds perched upon the fibres of the magic plant, for are they not the robins that covered with leaves the babes in the wood? Seethey have built their nest in Fortunies wishing- cap! Gatheringstill gathering! Com- mander of the Faithful, Haroun Alras- chid, we greet theemake that inverted jar thy thronetis one of those in which Morgiana boiled the forty thieves. Fear not that room will be scantthe pavi- lion in which we assemble is the Fairy Banous tent. Prince Camaralyaman, be seated near the one-eyed Calender beside him again is King Pepin. Do notlords and gentles allquarrel with the near presence of Puss iii Boots; for since My Lord Marquis of Carra- has has come to his fortune, Puss became a great lord, and never killed rats or mice but for his own amuse-

A Few Words on Fairy-Tales 58-62

58 A Few Words on Fairy Tales. [July, slander, and should be at once frowned upon by an intelligent and virtuous public. I will state, in conclusion, what I have hinted at before, that both Mr. Punner and I have beea led to re- gret our estrangement from this esti- mable divine, and have been fortunate enough to regaia his learned, cheerful, and amiable intimacy. He is, at pres- ent, I am pleased to say, the happiest of men, as he has no children within a block of him, and no person under six- teen years of age in his congregation. I had just finished my manuscript, when I was surprised by a call from that kindly young minister, Mr. Henry Howard. I immediately read the whole thing to him, and frankly requested his opinion thereupon. I suppose, of course, that it is an allegory, said be. My dear siran allegory! Oh! you are too severe upon me, I replied. Certainly notit is the most serious fact, I assure you. how, in the name of common sense, came you to imagine that it was an allegory ? I took it for granted, said he, that the babies of the story merely symbolized the feelings and interests of our fellow-creatures. I inferred that your friend, Doctor Armageddon, had shown himself selfishly indifferent to those feelings and interests whenever they came in conflict with his own com- fort or purposes. Thus understood, the narrative is endurable; otherwise it is a tissue of atrocities, only fit to amuse a New Zealander. Mr. Howard, I remonstrated, let me warn you against this insidious sys- tem of turning plain facts into tinkling symbols. It is dangerous to a young minister, and dangerous to those who repose confidence in him. Why, sir, you could decompose the solid doctrine of election with your subtle acid of alle- gories. I beg you to believeas I would beg all mankind to believethat what I have stated in this narration is the very gravest and exactest reality. A FEW WORDS ON FAIRY TALES. AWAY with that huge tome of Jeremy Bentham, and bring us our child- hoods library. Wave the wand and summon up the dramatis pcrsonc-e of our childhoods tales! Come one, come all good fairies with wands of gold and gifts of wishesmost dire ogres stamp- ing along in seven-league bootsgiants, vast fellows, but some of them harm- less, for (quoth the chronicler) they were Welsh giants, othersalas, for the Lands End !cruel, for they were Cornish giantsdwarfs who ap- peared on the battlements of enchanted castles, winding enchanted hornsbeau- tiful princesses who pined within their mystic wallsbeasts who were princes in disguiseand, alas, princes who were beasts in reality! Bring them all be- fore us. Genii bottled up in submarine vases, from the Eastgrotesque, funny little Wieland-like men, who lived in under-ground palaces beneath the roots of the pines, and the oaks of the Brocken misshapen elves, working cunningly in metals, and quafling mend, the ima- ginings of the Scalds of Scandinavia speaking birds, singing water (out on your singing mice), slippers of glass; and, by your leave, fair Cinderella, coaches sliced from pumpkins! And shall we not have Aladdins lamp? Hang it on the fairy bean-stalk you see shooting to the skies, beside the roes egg of Sinbad the Sailor. Yet disturb not the small birds perched upon the fibres of the magic plant, for are they not the robins that covered with leaves the babes in the wood? Seethey have built their nest in Fortunies wishing- cap! Gatheringstill gathering! Com- mander of the Faithful, Haroun Alras- chid, we greet theemake that inverted jar thy thronetis one of those in which Morgiana boiled the forty thieves. Fear not that room will be scantthe pavi- lion in which we assemble is the Fairy Banous tent. Prince Camaralyaman, be seated near the one-eyed Calender beside him again is King Pepin. Do notlords and gentles allquarrel with the near presence of Puss iii Boots; for since My Lord Marquis of Carra- has has come to his fortune, Puss became a great lord, and never killed rats or mice but for his own amuse- 1857.] A Few Words on Fairy Tales. 59 ment; and you, Grhnalkin, arch not your back at your sister, Puss, there for that is the eat of Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London. Ha! enter dreamingly, like Lady Macbeth, the sleeping Beauty; and lo another Beauty! yea, Beauty and the Beast; and be- side themapt collocationwalk Valen- tine and Orsonanother and another. Lo Tom Thumb! borne by the enchant- er, Merlin, and scorning the perils of the red cows mouth; his train consists of Bigendians from Liliput. St. George bears the dragons head before King Arthur, and Jack the Giant Killer, with his belt emblazoned This is the valiant Cornish man, That slew the giant (Jormoran, is close behind. Blunderbuss looks daggers at the Man-mountain queller, and his train of Brobdignagians bite their thumbs scornfully. Upon the brows of Hop-o-my-Thumbs twelve brothers and sisters glitter the twelve golden crowns, which the twelve young ogres wore as night-caps. Wit hath conquered ferocity innocence hath outsped the seven-league boots. Room for majestyKing Cole passeth with his pot in his hand, his pipe in his mouth, dancing to the strain of his fiddlers three. Ha! a rush of wings Peter Wilkins and the flying In- dians. Peter, take care of thy ivife, or verily she will soar from thee even as a birdshe is a human birdand leave thee lone and bewildered as thy German namesake, surnamed Schlemil, who walked in the fair sunshine, and cast no shadow! Beholda mortal in the company of supernaturals! Amid the ringing of fairyland bridles, comes the chatter of a parrotamid the glitter of fairyland gold, comes a vision of a goats-hair umbrella, and a rusty axe! Robinson Crusoe, the immortal mortal object of many a boys sleeping dreams, and waking sympathieswhy shouldst thou not also take thy place in our fools paradise? Come, with honest Friday, who puzzled thee upon matters theological, Robinson, and bring to our minds again that fearful piece of satire, when, with gun-point leveled against the naked, dancing, unconscious savages Oh, Defoe, how bitter was thy wit thou mutteredst, Now, Friday, fire in the name of God ! How easy is it to summon these vi- sions of half-forgotten boyhood lore around usto fill the shadowy chamber with a shadowy people! And with all the glittering, glancing throng, how curiously are associated in our minds the sources whence we first drew the ideas of their beauty and variety! Yes, the well-thumbed, dogs- eared, twopenny story-book of old dayswith its flaring red, blue, or yellow wrapper, and its outrageous wood-cutswas the conjuration and the mighty magic that charmed all these spirits from the vasty deep. Now, they are half forgot- ten. The minds eye can only see them dimly as through a glass. So be it. We would not again read our nursery Fairy Tales. We are turned skeptical we fear we should experience some slight difficulty on the score of belief we have lost the faith that never thought of questionwe can enjoy a fairy tale as it should be enjoyedno more. Yet it is permitted to call them back to re- collection, and to summon along with them some faint shadow of that mood of childish mind with which we origin- ally denounced our story-books that mood which knew not incredulity which eagerly received and treasured up any marvel, and then looked gapingly abroad for more! Interesting, too, is it in these musings, and easy as inter- esting, to trace the physical peculiar- ities and the characteristic habits of thought reflected in the fabulous litera- ture of each separate people. In the East, indisputably, wore the fountains from which welled forth the first streams of supernatural fiction. rphmey have flowed through every civil- ized clime, the waters receiving their tint and tone from the lands they rolled over; but if we would trace the various rivers to their source, we should arrive at one common well-headand this is reasonable. The East is a land of fec- tility of matter and of mind. The teeming earth pours forth its treasures in the very wantonness of wealth. Luxuriance there becomes almost rank- ness. Nature, too, when she is very prodigal, is eccentric. With stupend- ous growth is oftentimes united fantas- tic shapethe richness that cherishes the one forms the other. And can we not trace an analogy between the phy- sical products of the East and its super- natural legends? In both everythimig is on a grand scale. The banyan tree covers acres of ground; the oriental genie rears his head to the very clouds; 60 A Fsw Words on Fairy Tales. [July, the deserts, the palaces, the cities of their stories are all vast, for so are the natural features of the land. And then the eastern fertility of imaginationthe Arabian Nights is the most wonder- ful work of fancy ever put together. How endless are its combinations! how unflagging its marvels! On, on, pro- ceeds the web of story-tellingeach wonder unraveled, more wonderful than its predecessor. There would be no writing out the author of the Ara- bian Nights. But, had they only one author? Could the overfiowings of one imagination furnish forth such a tide of fiction? Or were these marvelous tales collected by slow degrees from different lipschanted, perhaps, to en- liven the long night in the caravanserai, or to cheer the hot halt in the desert? Most of the supernatural beings of oriental fiction have been reproduced in the fairy literature of other lands. Its genii, however, stand alone in their vastnesspeculiar to the bold fancy of the Persian fiction-weaver. In the magi of eastern tale, however, are to be found the prototypes of the enchanters of other lands. The ogre of ours is no- thing else than the ghoul of oriental story; while it is equally clear that from the pen of India sprung the fairy of Europe. And, in this particular, we cannot but think that we have improved upon the original. Beautiful was the penpure in mind, high in aspiration, rich in affection. Yet is there some- thing still snore delicate in Oberon and rl2itania. They are what Campbell called humming-birds Atoms of the rainbow fluttering round. How glorious was their moonlight revelry beneath the broad-leaved oaks! How deftly they tripped it, and yet hurt no blade of the dewy grass, which grew the greener from their touch! Mortal eye might not view them, except the eye of genius, which once beheld and recorded the vision of a Midsum- mer Nights Dream. But although Titania was bewitched by the love-plant, ere dawn the spell was broken, and the delicate pageant faded with the starlight! The fairies of the more northern coun- tries of Europe were less exquisitely delicate beings than their compeers of the sunny south. They were capricious spiteful; they envied me.n their con- dition, and often wrought them evil; their state was splendid, yet it was de ceptive; and when the court rode forth with bit and bridle ringing, no mor- tal, whose dazzled eyes beheld the scene, could guess that its glory was delusionthat the green-robed throng were anxious and unhappy, spite their pretended gayety, for every seventh year a tribute was to be paid to bell that their shining palaces were grim cavestheir prancing steeds, ragweed switchestheir broad pieces, clipped leaves. The fairies of the Arid and Titania mould dwelt under the blossom that hangs from the bough, and war- bled low melodies to the nightingale; but the king of the northern fairythe Danish ballad informs us Wonned within the hill, And like wind in the porch of a mind church His voice was ghastly shrill. The northern elves were woodland in their predilections; they loved the forest and the deer, but though they protected wild, they persecuted tame animals, and no farmers cow was safe from their flint-hearted arrows, unless shielded ~by the magic influence of a branch of the rowan tree. Thus we see in the more peevish, deceitful, and gross northern fairy, the influence of the less sunny climes, and the sterner and more gloomy cast of thought of the Teutonic nations. Let us go further north still, and amid the rocks and snows, and stormy flrths of Norway and Lapland, we shall find that the fairy entirely disappears, or degenerates into a misshapen and ma- lignant elf, haunting sepulchral caverns, or the dreary galleries of deserted mines. The imaginations of the bards of Scandinavia were as vigorous as they were gloomy; they sang Round the shores where loud Lofoden Whirls to death the roaring whale; In the halls where Runic Odin Howls his war-song to the gale and they attuned their lays and legends to the stern scenery which surrounded them. Continually engaged in war or the chase, they well knew the value of iron; and it is a characteristic attribute of their supernatural creations, that the elves were all cunning workmen in metalsthat they labored by the lurid glare of unearthly fires in forging swords and battle-axes, before whose dints weapons and armor framed by human hands cracked and splintered like glass. The domestic tendencies of England 1857.] A Few Words on Fairy Tales. fli bred up a peculiar species of house- hold goblin, occasionally useful, but more frequently troublesome. He was a sort of supernatural servant of all work, and had no objectioa to dirty work; such were the brownies of Scot- land. We are not aware whether their English brethren rejoiced in any dis- tinctive generic appellation, but Milton has drawn their portraiture, and Tells how the drudgin goblin sweat, To earn the cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thrashed the corn That ten daT.laborers could not end; Then lays him down, the lubber fiend, And stretched out all the chimneys length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. In Scotland, as well as England~ brownies appear to have been a milk- loving raceand, in consequence, the occasional committers of petty larceny in the dairy. In spite, however, of his domestic labors, the absence of the brownie was generally considered better than his company. It is recorded that a farmer near the Borders being sorely annoyed by the freaks of his superna- tural inmate, who was continually turn- ing the house out of the windows, deter- mined to dodge the brownie by flit- ting, Anglic~, removing to another dwelling. Accordingly the honest man packed up bag and baggage and set off. A neighbor accosted him on the way. I am leaving the old place, quoth the brownie-haunted; nobody could live with such an evil spirit as we have been plagued with there. Oh, yes, John, were flitting, you see, were flit- ting, chimed in a well-known voice from the interior of a churn, which was packed on the top of the luggage-cart; and brownie popped out his head and nodded complacently to the new comer. Imagine the farmers face! The Germans have a noble Ghoste- ology. Amid the smoke of their to- bacco pipes have they seen strange visions. The Hartz and the Brocken are the places on earth where spirits most do congregate. Along the Rhine, indeed, there is a tolerable sprinkling of the unearthly, but the Rhine ghosts are mostly commonplace. The spirits of ancient barons clothed in ancient armor, and going clashing about in ancient castles, may be re- spectable ghosts, but they have no pre tensions to belong to the niry aristo- cracy. And as for the Lurley maid luring the boatmen over the cataract by her singing, we think of the syrens of yore and refuse the claim to originality of the modern water sprite. Tis in the recesses of the pine forests that the genuine German ghostly people dwell. ~ stalks the Brocken spirit crowned with a chaplet of oak-leaves, and bearing a broken branch in its shadowy grasp. There sweeps the wild huntsman, the flying Dutchman of the land, with horn and whoop and halloo, careering over the trees a whirl- wind of men, and dogs, and horses. And there is itin deep dark glens, amid the waving of sombre pinesthat the charcoal-burner, keeping his mid- night watch, seeth a bonfire kindled, and dark shadows passing and repass- ing before it. With trembling limbs and bristling hair he maketh his way towards it. The blaze pales as he ap- proachesthen vanishes. Taking heart of grace he rushes to the spotand lo! the greensward whereon the fire leaped, and blazed, and crackled, is crisp and unscathed; and the boughs, round which the fierce flames twined, and roared, and wreathed, are green and fresh, and wet with the dews of midnight! Witches are the productions of later times than fairies, and we suspect that many of the tales of our beloved two- penny books are of more recent manu- facture than is generally believed, from the circumstance of witches and fairies being very frequently confounded there in. Now here is a grievous wrong to the land of fafirie. Witches are all very well in their way, and we have ail due respect for them; but we cannot consent to have our little, moonlight- dancing, green-robed elves made up into old women, like Mother hubbard, with a crutch, a sugar-loaf cap, and high-heeled shoes. No; let the fairy lurk in butter-cups, drink dew from acorns, and dance in rings beneath the oaksthe witches may bestride their broomsticks, every one with her black cat on her shoulders, and fly off, like so many nflrial machines, to keep their devils Sabbath; but let not the revels of the one tribe interfere with those of the other. We are for no cross breeds no. mules. Fairies are fairies, and witches witches, to the end of the chap- ter; and, by the way, English witches 62 Witching Times. [July, had a curious national peculiarity. The continental sisterhood rode on goats or broomsticks; but we were always a nautically-inclined people, and accord- inly our witches sailed in sieves! In fairy tales, be they from the East, West, North, or South, it is pleasing to trace the superiority awarded to inge- nuity over brute force. Everybody will remember the fisherman and the genie. Never was any one more com- pletely done than was the rebellious servant of King Solomon. One cannot help chuckling at the simplicity of the genie in repacking himself in the cop- per vessel. However, he profited by experience, like other fools; and on making his second exit from the vase, very naYvely kicks it into the sea. A less brilliant device than the fisher- mans, however, has been successful. In a Persian tale, a ghoul informs a merchant that unless he can prove him- self to be as strong as his host (the scene is the ghouls cave) he will have the pleasure of diningnot with him but on him. The ghoul lifts a stone and squeezes it, until it distils forth a fluid. The merchant takes an egg for a stone and squeezes it to as good pur- pose as the pebble has been squeezed before. The ghoul then flings a second stone into the air, so high that nobody sees it come down again; the merchant lets loose a bird, and the ghoul is cheat- ed a second time. Verily, these gentry were easily deceived. One lawyer would have been more than a match for all the ghouls that ever feasted on church-yard rottenness. Our own giants, too, were as silly as they were big. The extensive gentleman who ripped up his stomach instead of an outside bag of hasty pudding, really deserves no commiseration. To such stupidity we can only say, sarved you right. He was a Welsh giant, if we remember, and really did no credit to the leek. It would be easy to adduce many in- stances of the usually generous and manly spirit which runs through our nursery literature, but we forbear. Poetic justice is always strictly award- ed. The morale is universally good. By these tales a childs best sympathies are stirredits imagination is set to work, and we will answer for it that in his future life the man will often think with gratitude and affection of those wildly imaginative beings, indissolubly mingled up with his childhoods remi- niscences of half-forgotten yet happy days, when he knew no care or toil, and when a laugh was as easily raised by the grotesque oddity of Tom Thumb, as a tear was drawn by the sad fate of the Babes in the Wood. WITCHING TIMES. A NOVEL IN THIRTY cHAPTERS. CHAPTER XXIV. bEACON BOWSON would have noth -I~ ing to do with his wife now, but made her keep to separate rooms and eat alone, because, forsooth, she came of a breed naturally magical and dangerous. But in spite of this, and many other elaborately solicitous precautions, he felt that the cunning old serpent was not only getting an advantage over him, but had actually got it. In fact, the last rung of his craziness was reached, and he imagined that he had, himself, be- come a wizard. He knew that it was very wrong to be one; he was perfect- ly willing to be damned for being one; but that lie was one he now scarcely ever doubted. His suspicions, on this point, dated from his dream and, they grew by constant meditation, into a pret- ty stout-bodied certainty. He thought that he could raise Samuel as well as the woman of Endor, and tried it one cold night, in the garden, but only froze his ears by the experiment. Resolved to be out of suspense, as to his magical character, he consulted his sybil, his pythia, Sarah Carrier. Sairy, he said, reverently, am I one of the goatish flock of the bad shepherd? Am I one of the wizards which do afflict Salem ? I should think you was, replied the girl, pettishly; for she still sulked at having been separated from Rachel.

Witching Times. A Novel in Thirty Chapters 62-74

62 Witching Times. [July, had a curious national peculiarity. The continental sisterhood rode on goats or broomsticks; but we were always a nautically-inclined people, and accord- inly our witches sailed in sieves! In fairy tales, be they from the East, West, North, or South, it is pleasing to trace the superiority awarded to inge- nuity over brute force. Everybody will remember the fisherman and the genie. Never was any one more com- pletely done than was the rebellious servant of King Solomon. One cannot help chuckling at the simplicity of the genie in repacking himself in the cop- per vessel. However, he profited by experience, like other fools; and on making his second exit from the vase, very naYvely kicks it into the sea. A less brilliant device than the fisher- mans, however, has been successful. In a Persian tale, a ghoul informs a merchant that unless he can prove him- self to be as strong as his host (the scene is the ghouls cave) he will have the pleasure of diningnot with him but on him. The ghoul lifts a stone and squeezes it, until it distils forth a fluid. The merchant takes an egg for a stone and squeezes it to as good pur- pose as the pebble has been squeezed before. The ghoul then flings a second stone into the air, so high that nobody sees it come down again; the merchant lets loose a bird, and the ghoul is cheat- ed a second time. Verily, these gentry were easily deceived. One lawyer would have been more than a match for all the ghouls that ever feasted on church-yard rottenness. Our own giants, too, were as silly as they were big. The extensive gentleman who ripped up his stomach instead of an outside bag of hasty pudding, really deserves no commiseration. To such stupidity we can only say, sarved you right. He was a Welsh giant, if we remember, and really did no credit to the leek. It would be easy to adduce many in- stances of the usually generous and manly spirit which runs through our nursery literature, but we forbear. Poetic justice is always strictly award- ed. The morale is universally good. By these tales a childs best sympathies are stirredits imagination is set to work, and we will answer for it that in his future life the man will often think with gratitude and affection of those wildly imaginative beings, indissolubly mingled up with his childhoods remi- niscences of half-forgotten yet happy days, when he knew no care or toil, and when a laugh was as easily raised by the grotesque oddity of Tom Thumb, as a tear was drawn by the sad fate of the Babes in the Wood. WITCHING TIMES. A NOVEL IN THIRTY cHAPTERS. CHAPTER XXIV. bEACON BOWSON would have noth -I~ ing to do with his wife now, but made her keep to separate rooms and eat alone, because, forsooth, she came of a breed naturally magical and dangerous. But in spite of this, and many other elaborately solicitous precautions, he felt that the cunning old serpent was not only getting an advantage over him, but had actually got it. In fact, the last rung of his craziness was reached, and he imagined that he had, himself, be- come a wizard. He knew that it was very wrong to be one; he was perfect- ly willing to be damned for being one; but that lie was one he now scarcely ever doubted. His suspicions, on this point, dated from his dream and, they grew by constant meditation, into a pret- ty stout-bodied certainty. He thought that he could raise Samuel as well as the woman of Endor, and tried it one cold night, in the garden, but only froze his ears by the experiment. Resolved to be out of suspense, as to his magical character, he consulted his sybil, his pythia, Sarah Carrier. Sairy, he said, reverently, am I one of the goatish flock of the bad shepherd? Am I one of the wizards which do afflict Salem ? I should think you was, replied the girl, pettishly; for she still sulked at having been separated from Rachel. 1857.] Witching Times. 63 The question seemed to give her a hint; she fell down at him presently, nnd ac- cused him of tormenting her. Her reve- lations incrensed in value as she contin- ued them; and, finally, she declared that it was he who had afflicted her from the first, only he had his face covered so that she could not tell whose spectre it was; hut now she had found him out by his red nose sticking through a hole in the veil. The deacon surveyed his nose in a glass, and, observing that it was indeed red, he swallowed Sarahs assertion with greedy gravity. This new belief quite completed his insanity, and Hung his thoughts, all at once, into a novel cur- rent. The next morning he told Sarah, with great composure, that Satan had promised to make him prince of the wizards, and he wanted to know if she would like to be princess of the witches a dangerous honor, which Sarah un- civilly declined. That day, he was ob- served to be earnestly occupied in some mysterious preparations. He made Hannah roast him a turkey, which he stowed away in the pantry, with many solemn charges that none of the family should touch it. He brought in, from his shop, a couple of quart stone bot- tles, and filled one with rum, the other with his choice old canary, after which, he occupied himself, for two hours, in fastening straps to them so that they could be slung handily over the shoulder. From time to time, he tried them on, arid took a gentle gallop about the room, as if to see whether they were in any danger of breaking by such a mode of carriage. Apparently that peril was considerable ; for they banged to- gether several times with a click which brought him up, so to speak, on his haunches. Having arranged them, at last, to his satisfaction, he put them away with lihe turkey, and renewed his cautions to the household, not to med- dle. Sarah Carrier watched all his movements with intense curiosity, and asked him, twenty times, what he was going to do with that turkey, and that rum, and that canary. He nodded his head mysteriously at her, and muttered something about a good tuckout and doing the chore bravely. Indig- nant at what she considered a disre- spectful evasion, Sarah fell down at him with great spirit, foaming and roaring like a small cataract. But the deacon walked off unconcernedly, and corn- menced hunting the house over for old broomsticks. When he had found a couple he threw them into the fire, be- cause they were dirty, and got two new ones out of his shop, which he also phced in the pantry. his next addi- tions to this store of material were a gigantic horse-pistol, and an old batter- ed cavalry-trumpet, both borrowed from a neighbor. At supper, he would only taste of a mouthful or two, and replied to the appetizing solicitations of Han- nab, by telling her that he had food to eat that she knew not of. 1 know, broke in Sarah Carrier; I seen the rum and turkey up in the pantry. After dark, Mrs. Bowson ran across the garden to talk with Mark and his mother about the little girl, who was so dear to them all, and in such danger. The deacon remained, as usual, by his fireside, and read largely from books on witchcraft to the yawning Sarah. He was especially gratified with a new word, thaumatograjphical, and got it by heart, although it boggled him a good deal. At nine oclockthe hour for Puritanic slumberhe asked Sairy whether she would like to become the princess of the thaumatographical pow- ers of the air. Sniry once more rejected this generous offer, whereupon ho called her a false confessor, slapped her, tweaked her ears, and trundled her off to bed by the nape of the neck. Thu girl was amazed at this new discipline, and tried to daunt him by her usual spittings and caterwaulings; but he fairly cuffed her down as a child will a kitten, and told her, triumphantly, that if she were a power, he was a princi- pality. having locked all the members of the family into their rooms, he ~vent back to the kitchen, built a roaring fire, and sat up by it, over his satanic litera- ture, until near midnight. The wind rose about this time, and began to beat, flutter, and moan at the windows like a distressed angel of outer darkness. Throwing down Cotton Mathers Mem- orable Providences, relating to witch- craft, he hastily brought out the turkey, the stone bottles, the trumpet, the pistol, the broomsticks, and, disposing them curiously on the table proceeded to mutter over them some most extraordi- nary extemporaries in the way of witch benedictions. The devils blessing having been duly asked, he put the pistol in his pocket, and hurried, 64 Witching Times. [July, candle in hand, to the room of Sarah Carrier. Get up, Sairy, he said, giving her a rousing shake. The prince calls. The powers of the air assemble. Dont ~ ~ goingby the window? with me to the witch-meetino~ He pulled her out of bed, shook her up like a holster, and dragged her frock over her head in a clumsy attempt to dress her. Sarah was scared, and, after kicking and resistiug a while in silence, began to cry piteously. Come along, he insisted, cuffing her. You are a witch. I aint, she blubbered. Im a confessor. A confessor ! he repeated, two or three times. You are a confessor? Ah, thats true; shes a confessor. Tweaking her ears once more, he left her to take care of herself as she hest could in the dark, and stumbled hurriedly out of the room. Half a minute afterward, Teague was waked up by the glare of a candle in his eyes. He tumbled out of bed with the idefi that he was in purgatory, if not worse, and that the person who leaned over him was chief tormentor. Come along, said the deacon, com- posedly. Im going to the witch- meeting. I want you to ride the other broomstick, and carry the victuals. Come, dress up, if you want to dress. I cant wait. Blazes, masther 1 stammered Teague, rubbing his puzzled head. Sure yer honors a jokin. I say Im not a joking, returned Bowson. Come along, I tell you, or Ill pull your hair. Theyre expecting us. Faix, thin, masther, let em ex- pect, said Teague. Ill not turn wizard to save me sowl. Ill be damn- ed, sure, if I d~, an hanged into the bargain. Come straight along, and be hanged to ye, and be damned to ye ! bawled the deacon, swearing for the first time in his existence. Follow me, or you are as dead as a roast turkey. Pulling out his pistol in a fury, he cocked it and aimed at Teagues stomach. Och, murther ! roared the Irish- man, falling back and covering tho threatened part with both his hands. Fire and turf! but dont blow a mans brains out without tellin him the ray- sons. Sure an Ill be glad to follow yez to the worlds md, if its owaly against me will. Oh, howly Vargin! theres no harrum in that to be sure. And falling to, he dressed himself with gratifying diligence, while the deacon stood by and covered him with the pistol to insure dilio.en Operation. a 00 in the There, masther, said Teague; an now wheres the broomstick? Oh, howly mother, that iver I should come to ride a broomstick! But, since its yer honors ordher, let me besthraddle it as quick as may be. Go into the kitchen, then, said Bowson, sidling behind him, and still keeping him covered. Thus persuaded, Teague marched out, hitching up his breeches and buttoning his waistcoat in remarkable consternation. The dea- con harnessed him with the basket under one arm, the bottle of rum under the other, and thrust one of the brooms into his hand. He then slung the trumpet and the remaining bottle over his own shoulders, and, with the second broom-handle, proceeded to poke Teague out of doors. Och, murdher! the divil! whats that ? shouted the Irishman, jumping high into the air and glowering around him. It was Frisk, who had been waked up from his customary slumber on the hearth, and who had bolted out between his legs with all a little dogs curiosity and love of adventure. A scratching on the roof now startled him, and, look- ing up, he saw a couple of glittering, glassy optics staring at him ominously. With an abominable caterwauling, the eyes disappeared; and Teague started on again, at a jog of Bowsons broom- stick in the small of his back. It was not a cold night for the season, but the wind was awake, and roared dolefully around them as they stepped into Main street. Above them hung a bright semicircle moon, and a multitude of stars, all winking and blinking through gusty clouds which hurried across the sky toward the northwest. Mount! exclaimed the deacon ascend! rise! soar! aspire ! And he set the example of volitation by striding his broomstick and clearing a half-frozen mudpuddle with the liveli- ness of a cow. Och, wait a bit, masther ! cried 1857.] Witching Tzmes. 65 Teague. Let me say me prayers. Im jist a going to ruin meseif, body and sowi. Let me raise a bit o a prayer to heaven first. No! roared the deacon. Yes! pray to your Virgin and popish saints. They are of our company, and will be there. But dont pray to God. So, striding a broomstick, on the edge of a mud-puddle, in a windy night of November, the scared Irishman raised a dolorous petition to the Virgin and nil recollectible saints. He prayed that they would save his sowl, which he wasnt able to save himself, but was under a main necessitee to besthraddle the broomstick, which Daycon Bowson ud bear witness to, who had the pistol in his hand, and was a pintin at him that blessed minute, as thrue as Saint Payther was a howly marthyr. Thats enough, shouted Bowson; and, with a hurried Amen, Teague cleared the puddle, and followed his crazy master. Up Main street they went, at as fast a gallop as the deacon could do; the flasks thumping their ribs, and the turkey bobbing about in his bas- ket as if possessed. Frisk trotted ahead of them, sticking his tongue knowingly out of his mouth, turning, occasionally, to see if all was right behind, and then setting off again, as zealously and un- derstandingly as either of his ~ompan- ions. The straggling houses on either side were dark, but their windows shone and glared in the moonlight like great spectral eyes lit up with ghastly aston- ishment. The street rolled before them, perfectly deserted, and not a sound was abroad except the moaning of the wind, and the tramp of their bob-nailed shoes over the stiffened turf. ~How we fly! how we soar ! hallooed the deacon, puff- ing, and waving his free arm aloft, in the firm persuasion that he was shooting through air. As the gallop became slower, from loss of wind, Teague was able to uncork his bottle, and get it to his mouth. The rum was excellent; and he kept on tasting, until he, too, begun to imagine that he felt lighter, and would soon be off amobg the tree-tops. A can- ter of three miles, with an occasional rest, and, on Teagues part, a good many pulls at the stone-bottle, carried them over the neck, quite into the skirts of the forest. Having spent their last breath in climbing a knoll, crowned by chestnuts and underbrush, which Bow- son declared was the assembling-place, VOL. x.o they spread their provender on a flat rock at its summit, and sat down to blow for a few minutes. Then the deacon commenced sounding his trumpet. The awful solitude of trees sent back con- fused, sepulchral echoes to the discord- ant notes; and some screech-owls in the swampy distance responded dolefully, with their hollow hoo-hoo-hoorer-hoo! Do you hear them? See them come! Here they are! Welcome, brothers! Welcome, princes and servants of the powers of the air ! shouted the mad bugler. And toot, toot, brawled the broken-winded trumpet again, in every unimaginable variety of abominable snorts and villainous screechings. Welcome, brothers, roared Bowsoa again. XVhat hosts! what multitudes! what an assembly! sit down; fall to; brothers and sisters, eat your fill ! The flasks were uncorked, and the turkey was torn into fragments. The deacon fell to devouring, calling loudly on all present to imitate him, and pass- ing the bottle, with incessant hospitality, to dozens of imaginary comrades. Frisk rushed in from the thickets, where he had been disturbing a family of par- tridges, and seemed to relish a one- oclock supper as well as any two-legged wizard. Teague did wonders upon the turkey, and so heartened himself by drinks of rum and drinks of canary, that he was ready to join hands with no mat- ter what infernal principalities and pow- ers, lie made a speech in Irish, roared volunteer songs, and proposed toasts to Apollyon, Beelzebub, and all the other royalties. After the feast, they struck a light, roused up a fire, and kindled a couple of pine torches. Dance ! yelled the deacon, waving his flnmbeau about his head. Dance, brothers and sisters! hurray ! Erin go bragh! Satan go bragh responded Teague, with a kind of in- formal patriotism, swinging the other torch, and setting off in a Tipperary reel. The wild deacon danced, and the wild Irishman dancedstamping over fallen branches, bursting throu~h leaf- less thickets, shouting, laughing, curs- ihg, too, and filling up the clamor with blasts of lunatic brazen dissonance. The trumpet was dreadful to Frisk; it was worse than church-bells or psalm-tunes; it made him throw back his head, and howl in acute despair; he galloped about delightedly, after the two madmen, jumping, barking, and chasing the 66 Witching Times. [July, leaves, but regularly stopping to yell, when the deacon stopped to blow. They were nil so tired that they could hardly have played leap-frog with a grass-hop- per, when a crash among the boughs above them, followed by a whine of ter- ror from Frisk, bespoke the near ap- proach of some frightful thing, spiritual or temporal. Be jabers! theres the owid one, sure enough, said Teague, pointing to a couple of great, gleaming eyes, which shone at them from a mass of branches. The deacon raised his trumpet and blew a mighty blast of wel- come in the direction of the new comer. There was another rustling, succeeded by the upward sway of a bough, and they saw a catamount leap to the ground, and make off with the stealthy speed of terror. Away went the dea- con in clamorous pursuit, and away went Teague and Frisk on the trail of the deacon. But the creature vanished down the forest by-ways, nor showed so much as his cowardly tail in the vi- cinity during the rest of the meeting. Once more the dance recommenced in all its primitive frenzy; once more th~ little knoll resounded to an uproar that made night hideous. Now it so happened that Elder Par- ris and Justice Curwin, with a negro servant apiece, were journeying that very night, from Andover to Salem. Legal business had detained them late at the former place; but it was necessa- ry that they should reach home before morning, in order to be present at some witch trials. The roads were excess- ively bad. The elders horse had cast a shoe, which it took long to replace; and thus it happened that, an hour or two after midnight, they arrived, fagged and sleepy, beneath the knoll on which the deacon held his orgies. The sky was completely overelouded by this time, and the travelers had to flounder on in darkness, through ruts, mud, and thinly frozen puddles. Suddenly a li~ht appeared on the sloping bank above them, and a chorus of screams, bark, and trumpet-blasts, broke on their astonished ears. Mercy on us! Oh, Lord, have mercy on us ! exclaim- ed the elder, pulling up his horse, and stariug in dismay at a couple of figures which dashed out of the underbrush, leaping, hallooing, and waving handfuls of flame. Bless me ! bless me ! the witches are surely upon us, echoed Curwin; and brave as he was to human foes, he earnestly wished himself back in Andover. The very horses snorted with aifright, while the two negroes commenced praying loudly to the great Obie. The figures disappeared in the thicket; dashed out, presently, in an- other place: again vanished, and again reappeared, until it seemed, to the terrified spectators below, that scores, if not hundreds, of wizards were career- ing and howling about t.he woody knoll. Get up, screeched Parris to his horse, as soon as he could loosen his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and spurring like mad, he broke away in headlong gallop through mud and sludge toward Salem. For the night, the strangeness of what he saw, and his natural cowardice, made him, for once, a fervent believer in the close reality of witchcraft. Glong! glong ! yelled the darkeys, flogging on after the elder, while, close on their heels, half fright- ening them into fits, thundered the ponderous steed of the magistrate. At this moment the deacon caught sight of the fugitives, and, imagining them to be a belated company of brother wizards, he rushed down the slope, waving his torch, and blowing his trumpet, as sig- nals of welcome. Teague, and the de- lighted Frisk, followed him close, with an astonishing chorus of Tipperary yells, and canine bow-wows. And now ensued a very pretty race, in which Curwin lost his gold-headed cane, Par- ris his shovel hat, the darkeys their stirrups, and all of them several pounds of perspiration apiece. But bipeds were no match for quadrupeds, of course; and the pursuers soon lost sight of their supposed followers, down the murky distance. Parris and his comrades never drew bridle nor ceased spurring, not even after those figures and torches had disappeared behind them, until they had reached the thick- est of the village. All along Main street, the good people awoke at the furious tramp, and thought that the en- tire infernal host was riding by. The fugitives halted at the Ship tavern, which they beset with such outrageous knockings, that John Stacy, the landlord, poked his head out of the window in a stuttering rage. He was quelled, however, by the well-known voice of, Curwin, and tumbled down stairs in an unbuttoned respectfulness of haste to open the door. A candle being lighted, Stacy stated in amaze- 1857.] Witching Times. 67 ment, to see the two grave gentlemen all in a tremble, their horses in a foam, and their negroes turned to a kind of pepper-and-salt color. An explanation was soon given by the justice, inasmuch as Parris, for once, in his loquacious life, was unable to talk. Curwins courage so much revived as he spoke, that he ended by saying, they must call ont, immediately, all the fighting men in the village, and make a re- solved effort to capture this important hellish brood in the very act of its hide- ous deviltries. The company, accord- ingly, scattered to give the alarm from house to house, each one groping stealthily about, in no small trepidation, through the thick darkness, fearful lest the wizards should charge down Main street on ther broomsticks, like a squad- ron of dragoons, and so make a horrible end of Salem. Presently, Cur~vias darkey stole on lip-toe into the tavern, and was scared at finding another black fellow, already nestled in the fire-place, watching the door with eyes like gog- gles. Hi on, nigga man, said he, in a stutter; why on here for fright- fin fella so when he come to warm his- self? Boo, boo ! exclaimed the other. Oh, dat on, Quash? Wab, wah! on jes fraid ouself. Dat true, C~esar, returned Quash, candidly, as he crept up to the fire- place, and squatted in its vacant corner. Ise mighty cautious bout stirria up dem Obie people, dat berry sarten. What on spose dey do to nigga man when dey have so to white folks ? Goramanty, Quash, said C~sar; boo, boo! don on tell Mass Parris how I swear; but Jse drefful skeered, too, Jse willin to fess. What for dey wanty fight Obie men in ee dark? Spose we lock ee door and keep every- ting out till massas come back gen. While these two colored gentlemen, of nervous temperament, made them- selves safe, and discussed the horrors of witchcraft, Curwin and his band raised half the village, and returned with fifty or sixty armed men, to the tavern. John Stacy brought word that he had found Deacon Bowsons house open, and the women-folks fastened into their rooms, while the deacon and Teague were missing. Mrs. Bowson was afraid her husband was murdered; but Sarah Carrier declared that he had gone to a witch-meeting. Curwin mounted his horse and led off the musketeers toward the scene of the demoniac revels. Parris remained be- hind, and established a little meeting in the bar-room, which was soon over- run with disheveled good-wives. The moon came out and light& l the vah~rous Salemites on their way to the field of expected battle; but the infernal troop had apparently fled from the attack, for they found the knoll silent and deserted. Scouring its underbrush, from side to side, they at last discovered Teague in the centre of a spruce thicket, fast asleep, with his head in a greasy basket, a broomstick by his side, and a rummy flask slung over his shoulder. Shakings, slappings with scabbards, and nose- tweakings, restored him to a semi-con- sciousness; but he was as drunk as a dozen lords, and quite unable to give an account of himself or any other matter. Snddenly two or three men called out that they saw a dog, and gave chase. It is a familiar, said one; and he was about to fire, when Curwin struck up his piece, and bawled: Surrender ! The creature seemed disposed to obey the summons, for it ran directly towards them, barking and capering in the most vigorous style of canine gratulation. Its Frisk, cried some one; its the deacons dog; hell lead us to his mas- ter. Frisk, on his part, tried every doggish encouragement to inveigle them onward; running into the forest, then back, whining, wagging his tail, and again setting off through the labyrinth of shadows. Twenty or thirty men started in pursuit, bursting through bushes, stumbling over fallen trunks, breaking into frozen puddles, and, all the while, offering up fervent ejaculations for aid and courage. After a run of three or four hundred yards, Frisk halted, and set to barking furiously at the foot of a lonely chestnut, which lifted its bare, solitary height, like a skeleton, against the dull sky. As if in response to his bow-wows, a cracked, woeful trumpet- ing opened from the dreariness of leaf- less branches, followed by loud yells and a shout of insane laughter. Look- ing up, the astonished Puritans beheld the figure of some stout gentleman he- striding a bough, thirty feet from the ground, and seesawing after a most dangerous fashion. They summoned him down, but he only told them to fly up to him, and volunteered another 65 - IT/itching Tzrnes. [July, blast on his outrageous trumpet. Two of the boldest climbed the tree, and after a long discussion, and a sufficiently perilous scuffle, succeeded in getting the stout gentleman to descend. It was the deacon. He had flown ther~ he said, when the meeting broke up; and, to prove it, he showed his broomstick, which he had tied to his coat-tails. In exhaustless wonderment and much thaumatographical disputa- tion, his captors led him to the village, whither, by this time, others of the party had conveyed Teague. When the two worthies awoke, late on the morrow, they found themselves occupy- ing the same corn-shuck bed in a cell of the Salem prison. CHAPTER XXV. ON the sour, sullen morning which followed this wonderful night-adven- ture, Elder Parris arose from his two hours sleep with a shocking cold in his head, and the rheumatism in his toe. He wonld willingly have given up the most exciting witch trial, rather than go out that day; but go he must, if he did not wish to see the conrse of justice delayed; for Attorney Newton was on pressing legal business at Ipswich; and he had promised to make good the law- yers absence. So, having eaten his breakfast with many moans and sneez- ings, he ordered Cmsar to bring old Grizzle to the door. Laws and testi- monies, Elder, remonstrated his wife; now, massy on us, what a morning for a delicut creetur like you to be fly- ing all abroad ! Spouse, returned Parris, with a complaining groan, and then an ill- natured sneeze, let us not murmur. Doth not God temper the wind to his shorn lambs? I marvel that you should doubt it, spouse. Well, T dont know, said Mrs. Parris, venturing for once to question one of her husbands positions. You be a lamb, elder; that you be, if ever there was one. But I dont see as the Lord has tempered the wind to you of any great account, this morning in per- ticler. I think if he had a tempered it a leetle more, it wouldnt a hurt him; that I do. The elder made no reply, except by a groan; for he was very much of his wifes thinking, at the moment. By this time the girls were cloaked and hooded for the expedition; and Parris, having struggled into his boots and overelothes, limped to the door; Ccesar, in the meanwhile, calling from the gate, in stentorian bad English, that the horse was ready. This Cmesar, by the way, was a late acquisition to the par- sonage property; the notorious John Indian having insolently run away from the frequent applications of the elders ill-tempered horsewhip. Parris mounted, grumbling, to the sad- dle; took Abigail up before, and Eliza- beth behind him; and then, by means of various jerks and kicks, started Grizzle into a jumbling canter. A half- hours ride brought them to the ancient and weather-worn house, in which, for want of room in the prison, Rachel and several other accused persons had been immured. A dull sleet was falling all the whilea damp, drizzly, uncomfort- able mixture of rain and snow, highly rheumatic in its tendenciesa mixture which penetrated to the elders suffer- ing toe, and made it crawl with anguish. It was in a horrible bad humor, there- fore, that he entered the old keeping- room, and saluted a party of his fellow- inquisitors. He did not dare, indeed, to browbeat hawthorne and Curwin; on the contrary, he waggled his head, and addressed them most civilly by the titles of esquire and worshipful; but he re- venged himself by scowling with mag- nificent ferocity upon the half-dozen afflicted ones who were present. In fact, his conduct toward this part of the community had always been disrespect- ful. He seemed to hold them in no sort of veneration, and boxed them about in a style which very few dared imitate. The old rascal knew the emp- tiness of their pretenses; and, like most great hypocrites, he loved to tyr- annize over little ones. He, therefore, now elbowed them out of their corner of the fire-place, and installed himself and his family in front of them, right in the cheeriest glow of the blazing walnut. Elizabeth Hubbard, May Walcott, Mary Lewis, and old Santy, got out of his way, as if he were their chief persecuting devil. A small girl from Ipswich, however, named Sarah Good, who had never seen Parris be- fore, stood her ground, and surveyed him, finger in mouth, with all the energy of youthful curiosity. Child, said he with a snarl, make your manners, and cease staring. Am I a sea or a 1857.] Wztclzing Times. 69 whale, that thou settest a watch over me ? Sarah Good courtesied and fell back immediately; thinking, perhaps, that the stout elder was very like a whale. Worshipful Master Curwin, was Parriss next observation, where is Helder Noyse? Is this a time to stay at ome and take ones hease, when God is showing his people ard things, and causing them to drink the wine of astonishment? Ave I not come ere from Salem village through rain and sleet, with a cold in my ead and the rheumatics in my great toe, merely that the testimony against the wicked may not fail for lack of a scribe ? I ave indeed; and I thank eaven which ath given me strength for such a duty. Go is on the Lords side? Go? Is Helder Noyse? Then he should be ere. Further remark was prevented by the entrance of Noyse, pale and agitat- ed, yet striving to smile and bow with his usual courtliness. After the ordi- nary pious salutations had been ex- changed, he, of course, inquired about the awful affair of the night previous. Brother, responded Parris solemnly, that was a scene to try the believers soul. Never before did I so feel that a orse is a vain thing for safety. Five thousand devils, Brother Noyseyes, five thousand devils and witches in one ellish congregation! These heyes saw themthese uman heycs; and it is of the mercies of God that they were not turned into stone at the nefandous spec- tacle. Ho! then I called for elp upon the chariots of the Lord, which are thousands upon thousands; and thanks be unto Him oo eareth prayer; for, even as I shouted and roared to Him, the devilish crowd vanished from be- hind us. Shall we not thank Him! Yea, let us do so directly. Without further warning he got on his knees, of course, constraining the whole company to do likewise. But we will not trouble ourselves to report his tempestuous supplication. When it was over, he said immediately: Now then, refreshed by the blessing of eaven, let us examine the guilty ones. Who shall we have out first ? questioned Curwin, rubbing his freshly- shaven chin. I propose, said Noyse from the window, that we examine first the daughter of that dead wizard, Henry More. Her case may have some bear- ing on the fearful mystery of yester- night. True, true, responded Curwin. Very true, indeed; very justly con- ceived. He looked a little anxious, however, notwithstanding his ready assent; as if he had already begun to suspect that the mystery in question was too shal- low to bear much sounding. Parris also stared about him in some perplexi- ty, but ended by rubbing his painful toe, and nodding a sulky assent. The justice made a sign to Arnold, the sub- jailer who had charge of the bulding, and the latter marched out with a tram i of ponderous officiality. In a few mo- ments he reentered, leading in and al- most lifting along the pallid, pretty wife of our Mark. She cast a terrified, shrink- ing glance around the room, tottered as soon as she was left alone, and then made a trembling courtesy to the row of dignitaries. Immediately the whole platoon of witnesses cried out that she courtesied to Satan, and, swept by the diabolical power, fell over each other in howling convulsions. Rachel, with large eyes and clasped hands, gazed, shocked, astonished, and terrified, on this lunatic confusion, this spitting of pins, this rolling against the andirons under pretense of being thrust by de- mons into the fire. When it was over, Curwin politely bowed to Hawthorne, and said: Take the examination into your own hands, justice. I give way to you cheerfully, ifit so please you. I wiji not be behind you in civili- ty, returned Hawthorne,with something like a smile of sarcasm. Do us the favor, and question the prisoner your- self. You were witness of the stir of last night; and you can best put your interrogatories thereupon, if so be you think that Rachel here had aught to do with it. He drew back in reso?nte non-accept- ance, and Curwin was, perforce, obliged to take the office of inquisitor; an office which in this case seemed to be rather distasteful to both these capable ma- gistrates. Parris sat down to a table covered with writing materials, groaned, rubbed his toe, sneezed three or four times, blew his nose like a trumpet of doom, and fixed his red eyes spitefully on Rachel. Mistress Stanton, said Curwin, 70 Witching Times. [July, sternly yet not insolently, you are now brought before authority to give account of what wickedness you are conversant in. With a mighty effort Rachel looked him bravely in the eyes, and then, turn- ing from face to face throughout the room, replied: I take all these people to witness that I am innocent. Hath this woman hurt you 7 de- manded Curwin, addressing the rank of afflicted. Yes, sir. She hath. She hurts us much. She plagues us deathly-bad, responded Elizabeth, Abigail, Ann Put- nam, May Walcott, Santy, and the others. You are here accused by six or ei~ht of hurting them, resumed Cur- win. What do you say to it 7 I never saw some of these persons before, and I never hurt any of them, said Rachel. I never saw the Indian woman before, but once in prison. She have, she have, gabbled Santy, rolling up her eyes after the possessed manner. She give me drink before Sagamore, he house. Then I take her to ponis her, and she fly in window like bird; but I tare frock to her. What does the creature mean 7 broke in Hawthorne, with a scowl of no little contempt. What do you mean, you old drunkard? Are we to take the witness of one who is not under- standable 7 Bless me, Brother ~ in- terposed Parris, smiling his oiliest upon the tall, grand, scornful magistrate, do not frighten the bab~s in faith. Are we not commanded not to despise one of these little ones? Surely we are. You remember the text, doubtless, Bro- ther Awthorne. Let us ave patience with this simple babe. I will explain for the poor woman,~~ said Noyse, putting himself forward, but taking care not to face Rachel. She would sa1 that the apparition of the prisoner once offered her the devils cup to drink; and that she refused it, trying to seize the prisoner and punish her; whereupon the prisoner flew into her fathers window and escaped, but not without a rent in her skirt. I pro- pose that the skirt be examined for such a rent. Parris rose from his chair with a gouty groan, and, limping up to Rachel, seized her dress with rude fingers. Brethren, said he, ere is a rent which answers to the poor afflicted womans narration. Wonderful! won- derful! Ow are the wicked exposed, and their secret ways brought to light ! It is a rip ! exclaimed Rachel, pas- sionately. It is a rip which I did when they fetched me to jailfor Sheriff Herrick pulled me away hardlyand since then they would give me no needle to mend it. Yes, yes; you would do other things with your needles, snarled Par- ris, as he wrote down his discovery. We know what the like of you do with needles. My child ath been stuck full of needles by the like of you. Santy went on with some babble about a squirrel that was Rachels famil- iar; and her nonsense was duly trans- lated by Noyse, who rendered her into English as glibly as if he had the gift of tongues. She saith the devil comes to you in the shape of a squirrel, proceeded Curwin. What answer you to that 7 If it please your worship, I know naught of it, replied Rachel. She shook her head in sad denial, and in- stantaneously all the afflicted shook their heads with convulsive fury. I am no witch, she insisted desperately, clasping her hands; and at this natural gesture the possessed twined their ac- cursed fingers together, howling like jackals. The justice, however, seemed to be little impressed by these signs and wonders, for the reason, perhaps, that familiarity breeds contempt, even for the devil. He, on the contrary, seemed to be affected by the poor childs dis- tress, and put his next question in a rather soothing tone: Well, if you are not a witchthat is, if you have not wrote in the devils book yet tell us how far you have gone. Have you not had to do with familiar spirits 7 I have no familiarity with the devil, replied Rachel, beginning to cry at that faint intonation of kindness. How is it, then, that your appear- ance seemeth to hurt these 7 continued Curwin, still more softened. I am innocent, she simply answer- ed, sobbing and wiping her eyes with her apron. Why, broke in Parris, with a roar of savage determination, as if to stiffen up the failing backbone of the justice, why, woman, you act witchcraft open- ly before us by the motion of your body, 1857.] Witchinrr Times. 71 which ath an evident power over these afflicted. I know naught of it, affirmed Ra- chel, in her poor little broken voice. I am innocent of witchery. I know not what a witch is. How, then, do you know that you are not a witch ? put in that miserable coward of a Noyse from behind her. I do not know what you say, re- plied the confused girl. Ha! I ave you now, cried Parris, catching the point of Noyses query and making it his own. I ask you now plainly, ow can you know that you are not a witch, and yet not know what a witch is ? I am clear, said Rachel, flushing up at his insolent tone into a courage of momentary defiance. If I were any such person you should know it. You may threaten, but you can do no more than you are permitted. Before God, who sees us all to the heart, I am innocent of witchery. Innocent of witchery ! shouted the inflamed Parris. What do you say to those murders you are charged of? I hope I am not charged of mur- der, responded Rachel, staring at him with horrified amazement. You ope not, you ope not, re- peated the elder, who was powerful at a sneer. Ay, but we know you are charged of it. Some ave accused you of it; yea, spectres ave been seen who accused you of most bloody murders. Your uncle Bowson ath seen them, which drew aside their winding-sheets, showing holes in their throats, and then cried out upon you as their murderess. This he ath freely confessed, being of your party,, also, and now in prison for his own witcheries, as you well know.~~ This was the first allusion that had been made to the crazy deacon; and even the impudent Parris would not- have ventured it, had he not been at a loss for accusations. Bowson was so evidently lunatic now, and his confes- sions so clearly unworthy of any sane attention, that each of our leading in- quisitors had already come to a pretty distinct conclusion that it would be best to drop him altogether as a witness. Thus neither Curwin, nor Parris, nor Noyse, had said a word about the dea- cons dream, or his mad escapade of the night previous; and thus, too, neither of these remarkable adventures were brought on to the carpet in any subse- quent oourt of justice. Returning to Rachel, we must observe that she had not heard of Parriss adven- ture with the five thousand devils; and so, after staring in much wonderment at that priestly personage, she replied: Sir, I know nothing of my uncles imprisonment. What! interposed Curwin, know ye not that he is in jail, and that he hath confessed against himself and against you? If it please your worship, I truly did not know it, said Rachel. She know it, she know it ! shrieked Santy. I tell her so, two hour. Why, look youyou are taken now in a flat lie, said Curwin, severely, for the dignified justice had been an- noyed by the reference to Bowsons ridiculous adventure, and by a smile of grim pleasantry from hawthorne. Please you, I did not understand her; truly I did not ! exclaimed the girl, disconsolately. I thought she was speaking Indian: indeed I did, as true as God lives.~~ She raised her eyes toward heaven, as if calling it to witness her truth, and immediately the cursed crew of afflicted rolled up every optic with shriekings and contortionate gestures. Ho! this is past all forbearance, and past all question, too, shouted Parris. For my part, I would con- demn her now to be hung, if such were according to law. What need we of further witnesses? Surely her trans- gression is sufficiently proven to demand a trial. Let us remand her at once to prison. What say you, Justice Cur- win? And he yawned with a weary inso- lence, as if, after all, extremely indiffer- ent to her guilt. I must, perforce, agree with the proposal of remandment, said Curwin, rubbing bis chin, as usual when per- plexed, or occupied by weighty mat- ters. Take her away, good-man Arnold, and let her be kept for trial, ho added, rather absent-mindedly. May Heaven preserve her if she be inno- cent. As the jailer approached to lead her out, Rachel clasped her hands and burst forth: Oh, sirs, dont send me back to prison. I am innocentindeed I am. I thought you would set me free; and, oh! I cant bear to go back to that 72 Witching Times. [July, placetruly I cant. I want to see my husband. Where is my husband? Please, good gentlemen, tell me where is my husband ? He is safe at home, poor thing, said Hawthorne, coming forward and taking her by the hand, with a gentle sympathy which ought to have sur- prised her. Oh, no, he isnt, persisted Rachel. No, he isnt. Oh, what have you done with him? I know you have seized him, too. Good-man Arnold, called Parris, why dont you tnke the woman away? And the jailer led her off, closing the oaken door on her sobs and bewailings. Then, as if struck by a sudden remem- brance, Parris turned round and said, with a delightful smile: Ho! ha! and what is your opinion concerning the remaudment, Brother Awthorne ? Do as you please. I have other affairs to attend to, answered that offended and offensive justice; and out of the room he stalked proudly, with- out vouchsafing a salute to the elder. Other accused persons were now brought in and examined after the same satisfactory fashion. But it would not be interesting, I suspect, to pause longer over such a monotony of bigoted injust- ice; and we will, therefore, skip three or four hours, and see what Elder Parris will do about securing dinner. He did not wish to go home for that purpose, inasmuch as there was a sharp sleet and rain storm driving, which made riding disagreeable; and he also had further husiness of a private nature in Salem. Noyse had already slipped away, to dine, as he said, with a parishioner. As for Curwin, it was publicly known that, for months past, he had cele- brated Saturday as a fast, to atone for his profanity at the arrest of More. Thus the hungry minister was really in a quandary how to find sufficient pas- ture; unless, indeed, he could remem- ber some abundant board where his uninvited presence was likely to bq agreeable. The impudence of his na- ture was fully shown in the choice that he made ; for he actually decided to forage on the bereaved and wretched household of the Bowsons, altogether regardless of the antipathy with which he would be viewed by a family that his infamies had so terribly ravaged; thoughtful only of the fat joints and exhaustless pastries which used to greet him there when he was the honored guest of the simple deacon. A good-morning to you, Mrs. Bow- son, said he, as he entered the house with a waggling bow and a smile of many teeth. Truly you must be sur prised to see me. Well, I.ave brought myself and these two dear lambs to you, seeking some of the pleasant pastures of old times. Were they not pleasant pastures? Indeed they were, and I never denied it. Yea, I ave come to dine with you, dear mistress being ere on the Lords special busi- ness. Shall we not be beholden to the righteous for food? Verily we shall, and with igh pleasure. Oh, sirwhy, sir, said sister Ann, stammering and turning red, I mu sure I did not expect youbut Surely, surely, repeated Parris, you did not expect us, but we are wel- come all the same. Ho! this is a lovely thing, this brotherhood of the saints; is it not, Mistress Bowson 7 1 dine at your table without esitation; and you dine at mine whenahemwhen you are at Salem village; and neither of us with doubting, but contrarywise. Is not it a beautiful thing, indeed, this brotherhood and sisterhood? Yes, in- deed it is, and none but an unregener- ate person would dispute it. You cer- tainly will not, Sister Bowson. And now, since we are to ave dinner5 let us ave it presently, for I ave much urgent business to arrange afterward; that is, of the Lords affairs, Sister Bowson. The poor lady was fairly caught, and had to submit to the resolute and unwel- come guest. But a little more conver- sation gave her time to collect her thoughts, and she presently went out with a half smile which foreboded no good to the stomach of the ravening elder. The dinner was a mighty time in preparing; and the kitchen door, when opened, showed an ominous array of tubs and other washing apparatus. Still, the table was set, after a while, and duly mounted with various covered dishes. They took their seats; the minister said an energetic grace; and Hannah, with an ill-concealed grin, re- moved the covers. What was the dis- may, the disappointment, the anguish of Parris, as he gazed on one dish of cold boiled codfish, insufficient for a boy, and one other containing three cold boiled turnips, with not another eatable thing on the table, except the 1857.] Witching Times. 73 crumbs of an ancient johnnycake! What a meal for an elder, and, nbove all, for the stomachful Elder Parris! He grew slightly pale, as he stared open-mouthed at Mistress Bowson, with the great carving-knife in his hand, a picture of wilted hope and speechless desperation. You must forgive my light fare, Elder, said she. I have taken to do my washing on Saturday instead of Monday; and so I can offer you but a modest feast. At the word feast, he looked as if he could faint; but he proceeded in glum silence to cut up and help the fearfully dry codfish; while Mrs. Bowson, with much show of welcome, distributed to each person half a turnip. The meal was swallowed with wry faces enough; but still it was swallowed, down to the last crumble of the johnnycake, Sister Ann eating more than her share out of deliberate malice, and the others eating from sheer starvation. Mistress Bow- son, said Parris, in about three minutes from the first mouthful, is there not another slice of this fish? It ishem it is very hexcelleat. Please, mum, interposed Hannah, theres not another bit in the house, mum ; and Hannah spoke the truth, for, ten minutes before, she had carried every eatable thing over to Good-wife Stantons. Dear me ! said this malicious Sis- ter Ann, what a thousand pities. I am truly afraid, Elder, that you will not have enough to eat. But it is washing- day with me, you know; and, doubtless, even Mistress Parris is modest in her table on washing days. lie was intensely provoked, and had no mind to say anything agreeable; but at that moment an edifying spirit- ual illustration occurred to him, and his vanity would not permit him to omit it. Yea, Mistress Bowson, said he, these washing days are a bad busi- nessa very bad business; but even the worst things are not without their oly teachings and himprovings. Thus, on those days when we wash our dirty linen, we eat slim and mean dinners; and also on those days which we devote to a special cleansing of our souls, we do the samethat is, keep a fast. Thus you see washing days, with their short commons, are a type of fast days with V their short commons. Ho ! what a thrice blessed thing is it to keep a fast! Is it not? Yes, indeed, and you will not deny it. Nevertheless, i~ihen a man has been keeping fasts upon fastsyea, fasting, as it were, for a year together in short, Sister Bowson, when a man is in my condition, having, moreover, a bad cold in his cad and the rheumatics in his toeia such a case these wash- ing days are specially ard upon him yes, indeed, Sister Bowsou. My dear child, he added, turning to Hannah, could you not bring me another morsel of that savory Hindian corn bread ? Please, sir, theres, not another bit in the house, sir, replied the girl, glowering from Parris to Mistress Bow- son, and screwing up her face as if she were possessed. No turnips ? said the Elder sol- emnly. No, please sir, said Hannah. Fasting is a famous simple for a cold, Elder, said Sister Ann, comfort- ingly. Yes, Mistress Bowson, but not too much of it, Mistress Bowson, he re- sponded, glaring around the table in vain search after another crumb of johnnycake, and then rising from his chair with a snort of dissatisfaction. lie looked so famished, so desperate, and, in short, so savage, that she grew frightened lest he suspected her trick, and should revenge it upon her husband and Rachel. She, therefore, congratu- lated him on the flourishing condition of the church of Salem village; its freedom from dissension, and its large accessions of converts. For there was a face of truth in all this; order reigned in Salem village, and various timid sheep had been scared into the fold. She had hit the right chord, and he was mollified; not that he was reconciled to the loss of his dinner, but the hope came upon him of winning a parishioner. True, Sister Bowson, true, said he, Ow wonderfully the~. Lord ath comforted Zion! Since the tares ave been rooted out from among us, not less than a dozen remarkables of grace ave been vouchsafed. My own dear daugh- ter are, this dear niece of mine, and my faithful servant in the Lord, Cmsar, are among the number of those who newly sing salvation. Surely it is de- lightful to see Eaven thus circumvent- ing the devil, and making use of lmis own outrageous hatrocities to bring ome the lost sheep of Hisraci. 74 The Last French Novel. [July, Surely, echoed Sister Ann; very much doubting, by the pay, whether the devil really had been circumvented. Ha, Mistress Bowson, yes, indeed. And ho! what a joy to be the pastor of such a blessed flockyea, and to be a sheep ia such a flock. Would it not comfort you, sister, ia your sorrows, to be one of us, and to go and in and with these dear lambkins through this valley? Yes, indeed, I am persuaded it would; as also it would be a comfort to them to ave you with them; yea, and a comfort to us all in Salem village. Which, in short, is what I mean to say; that is, come over to Salem village and settle, or at least attend lecture there. The stupendous impudence of the man was certainly amusing; but Sister Ann felt no disposition to laugh at it felt rather like bursting out a-crying. It seemed as if there were some menace in his invitationas if he relied upon those hostages in Salem jail to force her into his church. So she sat listen- ing, snbmissive and silent, until he grew so famished that he could talk no longer, and left the house in search of some more abundant hospitality. When he was well gone, she laughed hysterically, to think of his craving stomach; while Hannah, in an ecstasy of delight, lifted her skirts and danced round the room like a lunatic. And then, like a mistress and maid who had soft hearts and sympathized with each other, they fell a crying in company over the names of More, Rachel, the poor deacon, and even Teague Rooney. THE LAST FRENCH NOVEL. FIVE years ago, Edmund About was unknown, except to his old comrades of the Ecole Normal, of which he was one of the most promising pupils. To- day he is among the most read and best paid French writers in light literature and deservedly so. Thea he was a fine type of the Parisian student. A mind not remarkably strong but very active; a ready faculty of learning from books and men; industrious, but not drudg- ing; bold, quick-witted, and spiritmel. He was called a young Voltaire by admiring professors, who regarded only his intellect, and was liked by his fel- lows for his social qualities. After pass- ing a brilliant examination, he was sent by government to the school at Athens. His position there, which was in some sort official, gave him unusual facilities for entering into society and acquiring information, of which, as respects per- sons, he is accused of making an occa- sional indiscreet use, in a book published shortly after his return to Paris, three or four years ago: La Gr~ce Con- temporaineGreece as it is.~ It is an eminently readable book of travel and observation; notlacking its graver value, but always fresh and lively. Though treating of Greece, its pages are not strewn with classic fossil remains, dug out of Lempri~i~o and scholia. If some- thing of a scholar, M. About is nothing of a pedant. A man of taste and cul- ture, he was not wanting in appreciative sentiments of love and admiration for the poetry and history of the land of lost gods and godlike inca. But he re- mained unaffectedly modern and French. He carried his country with him under the Grecian sky. His country then was the Pays Latin, which is, all things con- sidered in matters intellectual and even moral, perhaps the best quarter of the Parisian world. For, we may say in passing, it is not all Bohemia; nor has Henry Munger described the manners and customs of all it~~ denizens. In this he did but as his countrymen-not to say travelers generallydo abroad. The French are little given to foreign travel, except in regiments; but, when they do pass the frontiers, hold to their native habit of thought a ad home standards of judgment as tenaciously, if not as of- fensively, as theEnglish. Only John clutches on to his awkwardly, protrud- ing them like a portmanteau, with which, from time to time, he gores your sides, as if to let you know that he carries baggage; while Jean wears his grace- This work has been translated under the title of Greece and the Greeks; published by Miller & CompanyEn.

The Last French Novel 74-85

74 The Last French Novel. [July, Surely, echoed Sister Ann; very much doubting, by the pay, whether the devil really had been circumvented. Ha, Mistress Bowson, yes, indeed. And ho! what a joy to be the pastor of such a blessed flockyea, and to be a sheep ia such a flock. Would it not comfort you, sister, ia your sorrows, to be one of us, and to go and in and with these dear lambkins through this valley? Yes, indeed, I am persuaded it would; as also it would be a comfort to them to ave you with them; yea, and a comfort to us all in Salem village. Which, in short, is what I mean to say; that is, come over to Salem village and settle, or at least attend lecture there. The stupendous impudence of the man was certainly amusing; but Sister Ann felt no disposition to laugh at it felt rather like bursting out a-crying. It seemed as if there were some menace in his invitationas if he relied upon those hostages in Salem jail to force her into his church. So she sat listen- ing, snbmissive and silent, until he grew so famished that he could talk no longer, and left the house in search of some more abundant hospitality. When he was well gone, she laughed hysterically, to think of his craving stomach; while Hannah, in an ecstasy of delight, lifted her skirts and danced round the room like a lunatic. And then, like a mistress and maid who had soft hearts and sympathized with each other, they fell a crying in company over the names of More, Rachel, the poor deacon, and even Teague Rooney. THE LAST FRENCH NOVEL. FIVE years ago, Edmund About was unknown, except to his old comrades of the Ecole Normal, of which he was one of the most promising pupils. To- day he is among the most read and best paid French writers in light literature and deservedly so. Thea he was a fine type of the Parisian student. A mind not remarkably strong but very active; a ready faculty of learning from books and men; industrious, but not drudg- ing; bold, quick-witted, and spiritmel. He was called a young Voltaire by admiring professors, who regarded only his intellect, and was liked by his fel- lows for his social qualities. After pass- ing a brilliant examination, he was sent by government to the school at Athens. His position there, which was in some sort official, gave him unusual facilities for entering into society and acquiring information, of which, as respects per- sons, he is accused of making an occa- sional indiscreet use, in a book published shortly after his return to Paris, three or four years ago: La Gr~ce Con- temporaineGreece as it is.~ It is an eminently readable book of travel and observation; notlacking its graver value, but always fresh and lively. Though treating of Greece, its pages are not strewn with classic fossil remains, dug out of Lempri~i~o and scholia. If some- thing of a scholar, M. About is nothing of a pedant. A man of taste and cul- ture, he was not wanting in appreciative sentiments of love and admiration for the poetry and history of the land of lost gods and godlike inca. But he re- mained unaffectedly modern and French. He carried his country with him under the Grecian sky. His country then was the Pays Latin, which is, all things con- sidered in matters intellectual and even moral, perhaps the best quarter of the Parisian world. For, we may say in passing, it is not all Bohemia; nor has Henry Munger described the manners and customs of all it~~ denizens. In this he did but as his countrymen-not to say travelers generallydo abroad. The French are little given to foreign travel, except in regiments; but, when they do pass the frontiers, hold to their native habit of thought a ad home standards of judgment as tenaciously, if not as of- fensively, as theEnglish. Only John clutches on to his awkwardly, protrud- ing them like a portmanteau, with which, from time to time, he gores your sides, as if to let you know that he carries baggage; while Jean wears his grace- This work has been translated under the title of Greece and the Greeks; published by Miller & CompanyEn. 1857.] The Last French Novel. 75 fully like a garment, whose becoming cut and color he is confident have won your admiration. M. About next appeared in print as the author of Tolla. In fact he was not the author. Tolla is known in this country by translation and reprint. It is not so well known, perhaps, that the French original is in large part a trans- lation from the Italian. It was first printed in that language, under another title, many years ago, and was, in the main, a narrative of facts, and a selection from a correspondence between real per. sons. It was suppressed very soon after publication, by the family, some of whose members found the greatest of libels in its truthful presentation of their con- duct. From one of the rare copies spared from the general destruction, our author, adding, it must be confessed, coloring, shading, and new traits of his own invention, made up his interesting little novel. Of his obligations to his predecessor, he made slight, hardly noticeable acknowledgment. The whole- sale plagiarism was much talked of at the time in Parisian literary circles, and finally charged and proved upon him in an article in the Revue des Deux Mondes. His defense, put forth simultaneously in the Revue de Paris, was a lame one, despite its ingenuity and astonishing impudence. To show that he was not a plagiary, or, if he were, that it was of no consequence (to him), he informed the world that Tolla sold well, and that a great publisher had already en- gaged his next book. Accordingly, Les Manages do Paris was soon issued from Ilachettes prolific press. Of its originality there is no doubt. Whatever we may think of the writers code of conscience, we recognize its merits of style and inven- tion, and are glad to know, for their sakes, that it counts its French readers by thousands. In his two earlier works, M. About received the praise of competent critics for his truthful limning of Grecian and Italian manners. It is but fair to sup- pose that in the third, where the scenes are laid in his familiar Paris, the pic- tures have an equal degree of fidelity. Now, it is a notion of rather general acceptance in England and with us, that French marriages in general, and Paris marriages in especial, are all maria ges de couvenance. But here are the histories of six couples with whom sincere love was the sole motive to matrimony; and, as the love is pure, so, it is equally noteworthy, are the stories. Mr. Jenkins may read them aloud to his wife and daughters without raising a blush on their fair cheeks, unless the girls, having been finished at Madame Chegarys, should color at papas pronunciation. Yet they are not lackadaisically sentimental. On the contrary, the lovers are good, cheery, sensible bodies. They and the other personages introduced, some of whom are choice originals, but not burlesques of humanity, are such as you meet any day in the streets of Paris: they are students, artists, professional men, man- ufacturers, etc. No moral is forced through these clever tales, protruding at either end like a skewer through a goose; but each one, giving a truthful glimpse of society, teaches its whole- some lesson. Following them, at an intervel of a few months, came Le Roi des Mon- tagnes. Under the forms of fiction, and with such exaggeration of coloring as is pardonable with those forms, NI. About claims to present a faithfully his- torical picture of robber life in modern Greece. The highly entertaining little volume forms a pendant to La Gr~ce Contemporaine. Hadgi Stavros, chief of a large band of Klephts, rules over the highways and byways of the hills near Athens, with less disputed sway than his brother king, Otho, enjoys in the neighboring capital. The regularly constituted authorities indeed, the police and many private citizens, not only wink at his proceed- ings, but sometimes look on them with open admiring eyes, and assistant hands outstretched to share the spoils. The contents of the book, except the pre- fatory chaptera nice bit of humor that reminds one of Irvingpurport to be taken down from the mouth of Mr. Her- mann Schultz, as he sat smoking his long pipe in the winter garden, just re- turned from Greece. No longer ago than the third of last July, Herr Schultz had been seat out by an institution in Hamburg, on a minimum salary, to ho- tanize in Greece. While herborizing, he falls into the hands of the Klephts, in company with two rich English wo- men, a mother and daughter, with the latter of whom he falls in love. He nari~ates his adventures and trials of body and affections, with a charming 76 The Last French Novel. [July, naYvet~, of which we are sore tempted to quote examples. But we must hurry on to Abouts last workthe third that he has put to press withia the past twelvemouth. Germaine is the most ambitious of his works of imagination. Its sub-title is Deuxi~me Seric des Manages do Paris. It is a novel nearly equal in volume to the six tales that composed the first series. The plot is more ex- tended, the characters are more numer- ous and more fully drawn, and some of them belong to classes of society that he has not approached in the earlier dates. His qualities of style and man- ner remain the samelightness, clear- ness, some wit and much vivacity, with- out impurityalthough one of the per- sonage s on whose portrniture he bestows much pains, is to a Parisian novelist, one would say, peculiarly provocative of open or allusive indecency. This marriage in Paris differs from the others, also, in being one of pure conve- nance at the outsethow it ends, will be seen presently. For we propose giving a brief, but connected abstract, of the leading incidents of the story, thinking by that means to do as much justice to the author, and procure, at least, as much entertainment for our readers as though we attempted a grave criticism. To those, however, who lack occupation for an idle hour, we commend perusal of the entire original, the pleasure of which we promise not to anticipate by a too complete analysis of its con- tents. Germaine, the heroine, from whom the novel takes its title, is introduced to us on the first of January, 1853. She is a young girl of eighteen years, living, or rather dyingfor she is in the last stages of consumptionin an apartment almost bare of furniture, on the entre- sol of the princely hotel at the corner of the Rue Bellechasse and Rue de lUniversit6, Faubourg St. Germain. The hotel belongs to the Baron do Sangli6, a scion of the old noblesse, who, partly from kindness of heart, partly from esprit de corps, has given the use of the apartment to the impoverished Duke do In Tour dEmbleuse. The dukes father emigrated in 1790. He was noted for his fidelity to the royal cause, and his enmity to France. He returned with the Bourbons, and had his share of the indemnity. In 1827, Charles X. appointed the present duke (his son) governor of the western Af- rican colonies. At the end of two years he obtained leave of absence, and came to Paris, where he doubled his in- come by marriage. That event was speedily followed by the revolution of 1830, which threw him out of office. He refused, both from principle and in- dolence, to accept office under the new government. He spent the next ten years enjoying the pleasures of the cap- ital, in the grand style of a grand seig- neur of the ancien rigime: that is, he never failed in the nicest observance of the conventional proprieties towards the world, and towards his beautiful wife. She bore him a daughter, Ger- maine, in 1835. He wasted her fortune and his own in splendid debaucheries, which, with extreme good taste and at enormous additional expensefor no- thing costs dearer than discretion at Parishe kept carefully concealed from the duchess, who adored him. Though profoundly selfish, he was neither mean nor cruel; though an utter rake, he was not gross nor a fool. Accordingly, lie always preserved his polished elegance of manners, and was fully aware that he was verging to the brink of poverty. For a time the gaming-table was a fer- tile resource; and he counted with care- less confidence on uninterrupted good- luck. The twenty-fourth of February, 1848, was fatal to him. My dear Marguerite, he then said with frank gayety to his wife, this villainous revo- lution has ruined us. I have not a thousand francs. The poor duchess, startled by the unexpected announce- ment, thought of their little daughter and burst into tears. Never mind, said he lightly, and courteously kissing her hand, the storm will blow over. Count on me. I count on luck. Fortune will come again. And so, disdaining to turn to productive account whatever small tal- ent he was possessed of, he idly await- ed the return of fortune in the entresol of the hotel do Sangli~. Soon poverty began to press hardly on the fallen fam- ily. Tradesmen would trust no longer. The blindly-loving wife sold and pawned one by one, laces, furs, jewels. On new years morning, 1853, she ivent out, clothed in an old faded gown and worn- out shoes, to pawn her wedding ring. It was the only means of buying a breakfast for her husband. He always called for and expected a breakfast, 1857.] The Last French Novel. 77 which he always eat with a good relish; never troubling to ask how it was pro- cured, or to doubt the appetite and sat- isfaction of his wife and daughter. When he had completed his repast, he would kiss the duchess, playfully re- primand Germaine for coughing so much and keeping papa awake at night, and then go out for a walkex- pecting cheerily that fortune might take a turn any day, and must some day. Doctor Charles le Bris is young, well- looking, agreeable in his manners, skill- ful in his art-a favorite wherever known, and rapidly rising to a valuable practice in his profession. He is Ger- maines attending physician. lie has pronounced her case to be hopeless, and gives her not more than four months to live. He can only alleviate, not cure. A sincere regard for the duchess, whose health is giving away under the com- bined burdens of poverty and anxiety for her child, is an additional motive for continuing his daily unpaid visits. Then, it would be bad policy to desert a noble family in distress. The doctor is shrewd, though he passes for being only good-natured. Doctor le Bris also sometimes visits Madame Chermidy, in the Rue da Cirque, Faubourg St. Honor~. Madame Chermidy, n~e Lavenaze, had inherited the beauty of an Arlesian mother for her only fortune. Twenty years ago she sat at the counter of a tobacco shop in Toulon. It was a favorite place of resort for naval officers when in port. In 1838, Lieutenant Chermidy, coming in from a long cruise, went to buy a cigar there, and was enchanted with the unwonted sight of such charms. Like Saul, the son of Kish, who went out to seek his fathers asses and found a kingdom, so the honest lieutenant in pursuit of a cigar found a wife. He offered himself, was accept- ed, and thought he had taken a prize. The prize took him for the convenience of a marital flag to cover contraband. Luckily for the worthy sailor, his life was mainly on the sea, where it proved less stormy than on shore. Ten years later, with ripened beauty and two or three hundred thousand francs that she had received neither from her husbands wages nor by legacy, Madame Chermidy came to Paris. She took a grand apartment in the Faubourg St. Honor~, drove out two blood horses to the Bois du Boulogne, and was much talked of, without furnishing any patent cause for scandal. When her husband came home in 1850, after a three years absence, he was astounded by the mag- nificence of her apartment and the brave livery of her domestics; and when his dear Honorine presented her- self in an elegant morning toilette that must have cost as much as two or three years of his pay, he forgot to clasp her in his arms or kiss her; sheered off without saying a word; ordered the hackman to drive to the Lyons Railroad d~p8t, and embarked a month after- wards for a five years cruise in the Indian Seas. Some while before the arrival of her husband, Madame Chermidy had made the acquaintance of the Count Diego Gomez de Villanera. The count, you see it by the name, is Spanish. He is tall, dark complexioned, and rather harsh- featured; grave and dignified in his manners; ardent in his passions; the soul of honorall as become a Spanish hidalgo, who traces the course of his unsullied blood through twenty genera- tions. The astute Arlesian studied through her lover at a glance. Her character remained to him a sealed book. Lost in fond contemplation of the beautiful cover, he never thought to pry into its mysteries, nor dreamed they differed from the promises of the fair title-page. She was so delicately sensitive that she would not accept a ring, a broochthe merest trifle, from him. The first pres- ent she could be prevailed on to re- ceive, after a years intimacy, was an inscription of rente for forty thou- sand francs. The money she had brought to Paris was nearly exhausted. In November, 1850, she was delivered of a son, whom Doctor le Bris de- clared, at the Maine of the Second Arrondissement, under the name of Gomez, born of unknown parents. Don Diego would have recognized the child, but that it is not permitted by the French laws. He could not en- dure to think that the Marquis do los Montes de Hieros, the hereditary title of the eldest son of a Villanera, should one day sign himself Chermidy. In his distress, he revealed the whole case to his mother, and asked her advice. The old dowager bears considerable resemblance to her sonugly, tall, proud, and noble in all senses. Her thoughts are all employed on heaven, 78 her house, and its heir. She regrets his passion for the Chermidy, which she is too wise to reproach him with; for she knows well the world, though no longer of it. She takes the infant, to bring up in her hotel. The Chermidy sees the new hold she has upon the count, and devises a bold plan for turning it to the account of her vaulting ambition. Marriage, during the lieutenants life, is, of course, im- possible; but the lieutenant, exposed to the perils of the sea and of battle, will not, it is hoped, live always. One day she said to Don Diego, Marry take a wife from among the first nobil- ity of France, and condition that in the legal papers of arrangement for the marriage, she recognize your child as her own. By this means, little Gomez, who is now two years old, will become your legitimate son, noble on the fathers and mothers side, and heir of your Spanish estates. As for me, I sacrifice myself to the interests of our boy. I will retire to a cottage, to live on mem- ory and weep over past happiness.~~ This grand act of renunciation aug- mented, if possible, the doting admira- tion of the chivalric Diego, who refuses to abandon this heroine of maternal love. To overcome his scruples, it was necessary that Madame Chermidy should disclose, as delicately as might be, other features of her scheme. Marry, she whispered in his ear, provisionally. The doctor will find you a wife among his patients. Mademoiselle de in Tour dEmbleuse bears oiie of the first names of the old noblesse. She can live but a few months. Her father is penniless, and has all the tastes that wealth alone can gratify. For a sufficient sum of money he will consent to her marriage, with the proposed condition. When she is dead, the count will have a legitimate son, and be free to legitimate his mis- tress whenever the fates remove the impedimental lieutenant. Don Diegos love for his son controls his better sentiments regarding the shameful bargain. The noble, religious old dowagers love for her son, and her conviction that he will alienate his es- tates and commit any other folly that the bad woman may urge, if this plan be not followed, do not overcome her disgust, but make her consent, as to the least of evils, to the shameful bargain. Withal, for she is a woman, she has [July, come to be strongly attached to the little Gomez: and he is a Villanera her noble blood runs in his veins. Doctor le Bris proposes the affair to the duke one morning, as that wor- thy gentleman lies in bed. And here follows one of the best scenes in the book, where the doctors worldly shrewdness and coolness curioi~sly but naturally mingled with his kindness of heartthe dukes selfishness and gen- tility, and conventional pride of class and levitythe duchesss regard for her husbands comfort, and her mater- nal love and womanly delicacyGer- maines devotion to her fathers comfort and to her dear mothers relief from tho sufferings of poverty, and holy sacrifice of maidenly feelings to their interests are depicted in their varied play, con- trast and conflict with rare skill and (French) truthfulness. It is too long to translate in full. Abbreviation would destroy its nice shadings, and be a gross injustice to M. About. We pass it over, then, as well asand for similar reasonsother scenes in which, after the proposition is accepted, the members of the two families are introduced to each other. The count, who is punctiliously respectful, ex- changes some needful formula of words with his affianced bride, who passively endures his presence, but hardly con- ceals her angry disgust for her pur- chaser. XYith the maternal instincts of her sex, however, she takes kindly to the little Gomez, and grows to love the old countess, who installs herself at once as nurse and mother, and between whom and the poor duchess, acquaintance fast ripens into mutual esteem. Meantime, doubts and fears begin to arise in the calculating breast of Mad- ame Chermidy. If this consumptive girl should not die presently 7if even she should get well with one lung, as the doctor confesses lies within natural possibilities 7if Villanera should, as sometimes has happened, the doctor says, contract her malady 7 She tries to break the match of her own inven- tion, but in vain. Don Diego, having promised to marry Germaine, will keep his word as a man of honor; and as a man of honor will do all that he can to prolong her life, and so long as she lives, have no relationsnot even by letterwith the Chermidy. The marriage ceremony is performed, and the bride and groom, accompanied The Last French Novel. 1857.] The Last French Novel. 79 by the countess and Doctor le Bris, enter a carriage on leaving the church, and drive out of Paris on their way to Italy. Throughout the journey, the count pays unremitting and respectful attentions to the invalid, who accepts~ them coldly, without thanks. Towards the little Gomex, towards the noble old mother-in-law, she displayed all the sweet womanly graces of mother and daughter. With the doctor, she. is friendly and confiding, as with an elder brother. To her husband she showed more than the caprices of a woman more than the querulousness of an in- valid. One day, when he asked after her health, she answered, with a calm- ness just colored by a sneer, that she was getting on finelyher suffering was on the increase! He felt the bit- terness of the reproach, and felt that he had no right to protest. Under pre- tense of viewing the landscape, he turned his head to the window, and she saw tears full on the carriage wheels. Three months of Italian travel improved neither her health nor her humor. At Nice, the population was made up of consumptive patients like herself; the festal gayety of Florence mocked her sufferingwas at discord with her dying estate; the Campo Santo of Pisa, the sombre master-piece of Orcagua, frightened her morbid imagination; Rome, with its empty palaces, and de- serted streets, and ancient ruins, seem- ed like a sepulchre, and they went to Naples. At the table dh8te of their hotel, in this last-named city, the doctor and the count chanced to meet with a rosy- checked young Englishman, who told them that two years before he was in the last stages of consumption. rII~lie physicians had given him up. He only sought an easy place to die in, and went to the south side of the Isle of Corfa to await his last hour. The cli- mate, quiet, and abstinence from medi- cine, had made him a well man. It would appear from M. Abouts graphic account of its various attrac- tions, that the Isle of Corfu has not only hygienic advantages far superior to those of the vaunted resorts for pul- monary sufferers in Italy nad the South of France, but that it is a delightful and equally desirable residence for that large class of unfortunates who suffer from chronic or transient feebleness of purse. The climate is paradisiacal, so- ciety good, and expenses of living at a minimum. Our travelers, accordingly, sail for Corfu, where they install themselves in a fine old half-ruined country mansion. Meantime; the old Duke do la Tour dEmbleuse was busy, with the means furnished by the price of his daughter, in renewing his experience of the plea- sures of Paris. With appetite excited by long abstinence, he soon seeks its gratification in scenes of low debauch- ery, to the disgrace of his rank. To raise him from such degradation, ~tho Baron do Sangli~, knowing that an at- tempt at complete reform would be idle, introduced him to circles on the confines of the respectable world, where its external refinements and forms of decency are preserved. Here the old rake becomes acquainted with, and soon enamored of, the beautiful Madame Chermidy. Under the skillful pro- cesses of this woman, who takes a vengeful pleasure in doing mischief to the family whose daughter, by persist- ing to live, robs her of her love and impedes the fulfillment of her plans, he assigns over to her the inscription of route which he had received fram the count; and finally brings to her, what, before all things, she was anxious to see, the letters written by Germaine, the countess, and the doctor, to the duchess. She had been kept informed by the doctor, with whom she arranged a cor- respondence before his departure, of Germaino~s condition, which was always represented as nearly hopelessi. e., very promising for the hopes of the ambitious Arlesienne. But the letters to the duchess showed matters in a somewhat different, and, to her, much less cheerful light. Without exactly contradicting the reports sent her by the doctor, they represented Germaine as possessed of a curious degree of vitality; for, after resisting a severe attack of illness at Corfu, she was strong enough to write a long letter to her mother, containing warm expressions of love for young Gomez and her mother-in-law. The name of her hus- band, though unaccompanied by any expressions of tenderness, occurred with a suspicious frequency in this epistle, as did, also, allusions to his mistress, doubly disagreeablo to the fair reader, as being, in the first place, uncompli- mentary, and then, as indicating some- SO The Last French Novel. [July, thing like jealousy on the part of the writer. It was, furthermore, evident, from this letter, that Germaine was clinging to life with a new energy of will and wish, as though the world was found to contain new objects worth liv- ing for. Had she come to love the really noble nature of her husband, in spite of the external show of indifference which her pride bade her to preserve toward a man who had based his court- ship of her on the calculation of her death? Could Don Diego come to love her? Such were among the per- plexing questions suggested by perusal of this correspondence. The physician writes that iodine may possibly help the patient, and sends for an inhaling apparatus of Chartroule. The dowager writes for another servant, from Paris, to take the place of old Gil, one of the Villanera domestics who had accom- panied the party, and of whose faithful attentions Gcrmaine makes grateful mention, but who returns to Paris on account of ill health. Madame Chermidy, seriously alarmed at the state of things, takes into coun- cil her femme de chambre and confi- dante. This girl is the namesake and distant relation of her mistress, and at- tached to her with a canine devotion. Her love and fidelity in that direction absorb all that is good, or that simu- lates goodness, in her half-savage nature. In her early life, when she resided at Toulon, she had made strange acquaint- ances, whom she had not entirely lost sight of on coming to Paris. Accord- ingly she finds, without much difficulty, a person of the name of Mantoux, who, after the expiration of a term of service in the galleys at Toulon, is rather un- successfully trying to earn an honest livelihood, as a locksmith, at Corbeil, near Paris. He is quite ready to go to Corfu as body-servant in a family, one of whose members is very ill. Should the lady die, he will receive an annuity of 1,200 francs. The femme do chain- bre takes occasion, incidentally, to re- mark, that sick persons have sometimes been killed by arsenic being accidentally mingled with their drinks. On the recommendation of the be- witching Chermidy, this man is readily approved by the weak old duke, and immediately proceeds to the Villa Dan- dolo in the Isle of Corfu, whither we will follow him. When he is installed in his functions, he manages, adroitly enough, to ad- minister to Germaine, daily, a very weak solution of arsenic in wine and water. The fragile inhaling apparatus of Dr. Chartroule, which he had brought, proved to be broken when unpacked, but another was obtained, as soon as possible, and to its use Dr. le Bris at- tributed the perceptible improvement of his patients health. A slight color began to tint her pale cheeks; the very skeleton that she had been began to take on flesh; her fine golden hair no longer wreathed a deaths-head; when they bore her out to the garden she inspired the genial air with a longer breath; latterly, she permitted the count to read to her, as she lay there, reclined in her long chair, and seemed almost interested in what he read. One day, after he had been reading for some time, he observed that she had fallen asleep. He laid aside the book, and, softly approaching, knelt by her side. He bowed his face fondly over the slumberer, but dared not touch her lips. A sentiment of delicacy, of shame and deep self-reproach, to think how he had become her husband, forbade him to catch, by stealth, a kiss from his wife. We must pass rapidly over the next month or two and the next fifty pages. Suffice it to say, that the strength and beauty of our heroine have steadily in- creased. Auscultation shows that the lungs are rapidly healing. The de- lighted doctor, though allowing a larger part to Providence than young phy- sicians are apt to, cannot sing sufficient praises to iodine. The villain, Mantoux, who has received a hint and a threat, in an anonymous letter, from the Fau- bourg St. Honor~, plies his minute doses of arsenic, and wonders, even more than the doctor, that the cure goes on. A charming courtship is going on between husband and wife. Her humor has improved with her health; she is glad and grateful for the constant proofs of his devotion; the recollections of the marriage contract and the wedding cere- mony are less painfully vivid. Still, a little remnant of wounded pride, a jeal- ous doubt of the share that Parisian woman yet has in his heart; and, per- haps, more than that, the natural shy- ness of an inexperienced young girl for she is nothing morerestrain the undisguised display of her affection. On his part, Don Diego having been so 1857.] The Last French Novel. Si ion g rebuffed, conscious that he has no right to complain, timid as the strong are when in love, respectfully waits for encouragement to avow his passion. One day they gave a dinner to some pleasant Corfa neighbors who had be- come their friends. The conversation at dessert chanced to turn on the British East Indian policy, and this very natur- ally led one of the guests to mention the news just brought by the last steamer, of the affair at Ky-Tcheou, where the Chinese had killed two mis- sionaries and the commandant of a French ship the Nainde, Captain Chermidy ! Don Diego turned sud- denly pale; the old countess rose from table, and the guests went into the drawing-room. Poor Germaine felt that the decisive moment of her life had come, and that Villanera, not le Bris, could now alone preserve it. She escaped from the company as soon as she could, leading away her husband into the garden. Here follows a conversation, a for- g-iveness of the past, a mutual avowal, and, altogether, as pretty a love scene as was ever enacted by twilight under the soft sky of the lonian Isles. It does great credit to M. About, as a literary artist, and forces one to think better of his heart. As for pure, sweet, naive, beautiful, loving Germainewe envy the privilege of the delighted Don IDiego, as he tenderly kisses her two little hands, which, a moment after- wards, are locked about his neck, as she draws down his head, till his lips meet hersfor the first time. She regained her chamber, overcome by glad emotions. Hope and an eager desire for continued life and health grew strong in her. She wanted to hasten her cure; she grew impatient of the doctors caution. If it is the iodine that is so healing in its virtues, why not inhale the life-giving fumes in full, long breaths? When the countess entered her room, an hour afterwards, she found the ap- paratus broken on the floor, and Ger- maine burning with a violent fever. The doctor was frightened at the excited condition of his patient, which seemed hardly to be accounted for solely by an immoderate use of iodine. The next morning, he recognized an inflam- mation of the lungs; and was in despair. Physicians from the town were sent for. One of them timidly suggested a gleam VOL. x.6 of hope; perhaps, he said, it is an adhesive inflammation which will reunite the cavities, and repair all the injuries caused by her original malady. Poor le Bris shook his head: you might as well say to an architect that the shock of an earthquake would restore a totter- ing house to its equilibrium! Not only the members of her family, hut all the friendly neighbors, who had become warmly attached to her, were filled with sorrow, and disputed the privilege of doing the slightest services for the suf- ferer. Mantoux, alone, was full of wild cheerfulness, as he thought of his an- nuity, and would walk about to view a lit- tle property that lay near the villa, and on which he had set his heart, as dli an assured and pleasant retreat for his vir- tuous old age. The fever set in the first of Septem- ber. On the sixth, Dr. le Bris wrote totheduke . . . . When you receive this letter, she will be no more. Break the news carefully to the duchess. The same day, Mantoux wrote a few words to the femme de chambre of Madame Chermidy. The letters reached Paris the twelfth. The duke received his as he was going out to make his daily visit to the Rue du Cirque. Its contents confused his poor, muddled brain, and he hurried to his dear Honorine for explanation and sympathy. He never had seen Madame Chermidy so beautiful; she was bril- liant with joy. Good-day, duke, and good-by, she said. You wonder where I am going ?I am going to Corfu. You have lost your daughter? Yes, I know; and I have found my son and the Count Villanera. Do I love him ?My poor duke, I have al- ways loved him. He is free, now, and so am I. I shall be countess. Do you want some money ?No! very well; but, remember, you can only have it from us for the future. Good-by ! The wretched old man left the house, and ran about half-wildly in the streets. The loss of Honorinethe proof that she had never loved himthreatened to de- prive him of the small stock of sense he had hitherto preserved. Toward night- fall he was met by the Baron Sangli~, who, by questioning, found out, at last, the story of the letter, and the affair of the morning in the Rue du Cirque. He led the duke home, informed the duch- ess, as he best could, of the sad news, and applied himself to heal the duke of 82 The Last French Novel. the violence of his folly. He succeeded, by gentleness and good-sense, in making him see Madame Chermidv in her true colors. Recovered from his illusions, the old man, for the next few days, paid those sympathetic attentions to his heart-stricken wife, which were becom- ilig to their common grief. I-Jo also took unwonted interest in household details, recognized the necessity of some purchases, borrowed 2,000 francs of the baron to defray the expenses, and started for Corfa on the 20th Sep- teinber, without taking leave of any one. On the 8th, Germaine, to the surprise of her physicians, passed the crisis of the fever, and entered on a rapid con- valescence. The faint gleam of hope .burst into genial, life-giving light. The earthquakes shock had righted the house. Le Bris could hardly con- tain his transports. Mantoux grew melancholy, and inwardly cursed the Corfa apothecaries for adulterating their poisons. On the 22nd, the duch- ess, in Paris, received a compound letter from all the party, which in- formed her of her daughters radical cure. Madame Chermidy landed at Corfa the same day. She took a carriage next morning, and drove to the Villa Dandolo. The doors were open, no one at home. Had the Villaneras already returned to France? She descended into the garden, and saw, at a little dis- tance, a lady in white. What is this That is not the color of a house in mourning. A little child appears in the alley, is frightened at sight of a stranger, and runs toward the white lady. The Chermidy pursues her son, and in -h moment stands before Ger- maine, face to face. The first shock of disappointment, proportioned to the height of ambitious hope from which she fell, seemed for a moment to stun her. But hatred soon rose uppermost in the tumult of passions. As she regarded her successful rival, bloom- ing with youth and happiness, she thought of the little Corsican poniard, which was always an ornament of her chi~aney-piece. Then her glances alter- nated from the slight form of the young countess to the waves that bathed the wall of the deserted garden. Germaine had never before seen the Arlesian; but, a few words of conversation, aided by the rare instinct of womanly love [July, and jealousy, quickly told her that she was in presence of her enemy. Pas- sion roused her nature, and inspired her with a strange energy. The interview might have had a tragic close, had it not been interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, who, with a mixture of firm- ness and easy gallantry that could not be resisted, offered the intruder his arm and led her away. Madame Chermidy was not, however, one to be thus easily frustrated of her purpose. She must see the count. If he refused a meeting, she would make scandal; she would publish the story of his marriage; the world should know that the heir of the Villaneras was a Chermidy. She found a pretty house and garden to let, near the Villa Dan- dolothe same little estate that Man- toux so coveted. She hired it the 24th, furnished it the 25th, took possession the morning of the 26th, and wrote word to let Don Diego know of her neighborhood. The poor man, meantime, was not lying upon roses. That he was thor- ou ghly cured of his passion, Gerinaine was convinced, when she watched his countenance as she narrated to him the visit she had received from his former mistress. At the same time, he could not forget that his wrong-doing had been as great as hers; nor would he forget that she was a woman, and a woraaii whom for three years he had loved. He could accord her a gentle pity. Germaine thought none the less of her husband for these sentiments, expressed with delicacy and manliness, and was even ready to assent to his seeing the Chermidy for the last time, and persuading her of the fruitlessness of her pursuit. The old countess took a different view of the affair, and put her absolute veto on the proposition: This creature, she said, has held you fast for three years. I know that you do not love her now; but you do not despise her enough to convince me that you are thoroughly cured. I will not expose you to a relapse. You need not shake your head. Flesh is weak, ray son; I know it by your experience, in lack of my own. I know what men are, though they never courted me. But when one hia~ frequented the thea- tre for fifty years, one learns something of stage-tricks And so, my dear son, you will riot go to the Chermidys, not even to give her a final dismissal; 1857.] The Last French Novel. 83 or, if you choose to go there in spite of me, you will find neither your mother nor your wife when you come back. The old lady was one who kept her promises. Don Diego knew her char- acter, and renounced the discussion; but, for the next three days, he was ill at ease. The doctor took him in charge, and set to work to destroy his obstinate illusions regarding the Arlesian. He finally completes the proofs of her real character, by breaking confidence and showing a letter to himself, in which, under a thin disguise of metaphor, she offers le Bris 500,000 francs if he will see to Germaines speedy decease. Pity, respect, and whatever of tenderer feel- ing had remained subtly mingled with them, yield place to disgust and hor- ror. And now arrives the broken old dnke. His coming was a painful surprise to his daughter, and a cruel lesson to Don Diego. But Madame Villanera, who had never had cause to esteem him, was well pleased to have at hand, by way of argument, the wretched victim of Madame Chermidy, and triumphed as she drew his story from the garrul- ous dotard. He had been raving of his Honorine for several hours, when a servant brought in the letter from Mad- ame Chermidy to Don Diego. The count showed it to the doctor, and asked his advice. The doctor thought the best thing to be done was to buy her off, and departed for the neighbor- ing house with full powers to arrange for raising the siege. But the enemy holds firm. She re- jects all proposals, and, to close the negotiations, hands to the envoy a paper, which she requests him to read and give to the count. He read: This is my last will and testament. On the eve of voluntarily quitting a life which the desertion of M. le comte Villanera has rendered odious to me, I, ilonorine Lavenaze, widow Chermidy, being of sound body and mind, do give and be- queath all my estate, real and personal, to Gomex, Marquis de los Montes do Hieros, only son of the Count do Villa- nern, my former lover The trick was not altogether novel. The doctor smiled his incredulity. And why, asked the lady, should I not kill myself? Because, my dear madame, it would give too much pleasure to three or four worthy persons of our acquniutance. Adieu, madame, added the doctor, laughing lightly, and courteously bowing himself out of the door. No sooner was it closed, than the femme do chambre led in, by the one opposite, the ox-galley-slave, Mantoux, who had caught some of the last words just spoken, while waiting in the next room. The conversation takes a new turn. After reproaches cast upon Mantoux for permitting the recovery of Germaine, which that unsuccessful practitioner bears with humility, it is arranged that he shall return to the villa, listen care- fully to the conversation at dinner, and, in case the count does not come in the evening, as he is still expected to, then to present himself again. During the dinner, the duke kept his eyes fixed on Mantoux. The feeble rays of his sinking intellect seemed to concentrate themselves on any object that bore any relation to his Honorine. He remembered to have seen this man in the Rue du Cirque. After dinner ho drew him away to his chamber, and there implored him to tell where she was hidden. They have all seen her ! he cried the doctor and the count have seen her, and my daughter, too, has seen her! They keep me from her: find her for me She will kill herself! She has sent her will to my son-in-law. They laugh; but I know her bettor th~n they do. She certainly will kill herself. Why not? She has killed me. You remem- ber that dagger which was on her mantel- piece in Paris. She struck it through my heart one day. To-night she will strike it through her own, if I do not reach her in time. Take me to her. You know where she is. Mantoux solemnly declared that he did not, and managed to escape from the old mans importunities. At midnight, when all in the house were quiet, he softly stole out and took his way to the appointed rendezvous. As ho went along by the hed~es, he fancied more than once that a shadowy something was gliding after him under the trees. He even turned back upon his path to see whether it was a reality or a creation of his guilty fears; but, discovering nothing, took courage again and went on toward a light that shone from a single window in Madame Cher- midys room. The femme do chambre was waiting for him at the door, and 84 The Last French Novel. [July, led him immediately to her mistress and retired. The first object which his eyes fell upon, as he entered the room, was the poniard of which the duke had spoken. Mantoux, in answer to eager ques- tioning from madame, could only report that her name had not been uttered at dinner, and that Count Villanera had retired at his usual hour. Her disap- pointment at hearing such report was only equaled by her anger; her former devotee not only renounced his idolatry, but made mock of the idol: the threat of suicide then did not move him. But she will have vengeance. She engages Mantoux to kill her rival. He demands fiftyihousand francs as the price of the crime: she accepts those terms. But, asks the prudent Mantoux, has she the money at hand; for if he is not paid on the spot, he would not care to go to Paris to seek his wages. Yes, she has a hundred thousand francs in her sec- retaire. He asks five minutes to reflect on the matter. Very good, reflect, said Madame Chermidy, so sure of her man that she did not even look at him while awaiting the result of his deliberation. The shadow that had followed Man- toux was the old Duke de la Tour dEmbleuse. When the other entered the house, he hid himself in the garden and patiently watched the window whence shone the light. He knew that was her room. When the light was extinguished, and he saw Mantoux come out and run rapidly away, he left his hiding-place and went to the window, against which he pressed his lips in ecstasy. He knocked softly against the panes to attract attention, but re- ceived no answer. He gazed with straining eyes through the darkness, and thought he saw Honorine kneeling by the bedside; again his diseased fancy seemed to show her asleep on her couch. After waiting a long time, and feel- ing of the window wherever his hands could reach, he began with extreme caution to loosen one of the panes, which were set in lead; and finally, after in- finite pains, succeeded in inserting one of his hands, all cut and bleeding, and turned the espagnolette. He groped cautiously across the floor, which was encumbered with trunks and furniture lying about in confusion, whispering at each step: Honorine, are you there? It is I, your old friendthe most un- happy, the most devoted of all your friends. Do not be afraid. I do not reproach you. I was insane at Paris, but the voyage has changed me. I come as a father to comfort you. Do not kill yourself: I could not survive you. He stopped and listened in- ter& ly. He heard nothing but the beating of his own heart. A fear seized him. Honorine, he cried, ad- vancing again, are you dead 7 Death itself made answer: his foot caught against a chair, he stumbled and fell in a pool of blood. When the femme de chambre entered the room in the morning, she found him then on his knees beside the corpse, dabbled with her blood, monotonously babbling an articulate cry in a low, wailing tone. lie girl, who had never had but one human sentiment, blinded by grief and rage, could only see in this idiotic wreck of humanity the mur- derer of her adored mistress. She beat him, bit him, tore him with her nails like a wild beast; but the duke was insensible to physical pain. Mr. Stevens, the English magistrate resident at Corfu~ had dined the pre- ceding day at the Villa Dandolo, where he was always a welcome visitor, and had long since become a valued friend. He had passed the night there. In the morning he joined the family group in the gardenthe old and young count- ess, and Don Diego, and the doctor who were amusing themselves with the infantile sports and graces of the little Gomez. The duke had not yet ap- peared: his windows were still closed, and they respected his morning slum- bers. Mathieu Mantoux was near by, zealously occupied in the performance of some domestic duty. The smiles and jests of the party were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Stevenss servant, who came to call his master. A mur- der had been committed in the neigh- borhood, and everybody was calling for the judge. All he knew of the affair was, that people said a French woman had been found dead in her bed in the house, a half mile distant. Capital! said the doctor, with a laugh. My dear M. Stevens, the breakfast-bell is ringing; you had bet- ter take your coffee. I think I know the case: it is not pressing. It is only an unsuccessful suicide. You have been sent for in the hope that the message would bring another member of our company in your train. M. de Vil 1857.] Beau Nash. lanera bit his moustache and kept silent. He bad loved Madame Chermidy for three years, and had believed that he was sincerely loved by her. His heart was bitterly pained at the idea that she had possibly killed herself for him, and memories of the past rose up in fresh revolt against the mocking levity of the doctor. Impelled by different motives, they both accompanied the magistrate, who, regardless of the doctors incre- dulity, immediately proceeded to the scene of the murder. Madame Chermidy lay upon the bed in the dress she wore the preceding evening. Her beautiful features were horribly distorted. Through her half- open lips her teeth were visible, clench- ed in the convulsion of her last agony. Her eyes stared wildly open. It was evident from the marks of blood on the floor and furniture, that she had been struck near the fire-place. and after- wards dragged to the bed. The femme de chambre, whose strength had been exhausted by the first violent outbreak of her grief, sat crouched in a corner of the room, silently and fixedly regard- ing the corpse. But when the inquest began, and she heard the testimony that seemed to confirm the idea of suicide, she burst out in passionate eloquence of deninl; and then first perceiving the count, who had thrown himself into an arm-chair and was silently weeping, she seized him by the arm, and, dragging him toward the bed, cried out in a wild voice, broken by sobs: Look! look! See the beautiful eyes that used to gaze so tenderly on you; the pretty mouth you used to kiss; the great long locks you used to twine your fingers among! Do you remember the first time you came to the Rue du Cirque? How, when they had all gone, you went down on your knees to kiss that hand! But how cold it is! And the day when the boy was borndo you remember? Who criedwho laughed then? Who swore fidelity till death? Come, now, kiss herkiss her now The count, motionless, unresisting, horror-stricken~ colder than the corpse he gazed upon, expiated in a moment three years of illegitimate pleasure. It was evident from circumstances that Madame Chermidy had not com- mitted suicide, and that the duke could not have committed the murder. Acci- dent soon revealed the true assassin in the person of Matthieu Mantoux. After two or three years passed in foreign travel, of which the Parisian world never knew the incidents, the Count and Countess Villanera took possession of their hotel in Faubourg St. Honor6 three months ago. The ex- cellent Duchess de la Tour dEmbleuso lives with them, and takes part in the management of the household and the education of a fine little girl some two years old, who resembles her mother, and is, consequently, much more beautiful than her deceased brother, the late Marquis de los Montes de Hieros. The marquis and the old duke died in the arms of Doctor le Bris, who is still the family physicianthe duke at Corfu the child at Rome, where he was at- tacked with a typhoid fever. It is said that the little marquis had a large fortune in his own right, be- queathed by a distant relation. After his death the family sold his estate, and dispensed the proceeds of it in works of charity. Such is the last French novel, which will doubtless be soon translated. The interest of the story and the skill of the narration confirm Abouts place in con- temporary French literature. BEAU NASH. LIFE AT AN ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE A HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO. BUT whom have we here? Who is How animated look his train, his out- this? Right regally he approaches riders, and the fellows clustered leg right royal is he in his appointments, and wing behind his carriage! How His six spanking grays whirl his chariot enlivening the music of the band which along in dashing style. accompanies him; how brilliant the tone Curriculo pulverem Olympicum of those horns, which startle the air Collegisse j nvat2 with their clangor. How the people

Beau Nash. Life at an English Watering-Place a Hundred and Fifty Years Ago 85-90

1857.] Beau Nash. lanera bit his moustache and kept silent. He bad loved Madame Chermidy for three years, and had believed that he was sincerely loved by her. His heart was bitterly pained at the idea that she had possibly killed herself for him, and memories of the past rose up in fresh revolt against the mocking levity of the doctor. Impelled by different motives, they both accompanied the magistrate, who, regardless of the doctors incre- dulity, immediately proceeded to the scene of the murder. Madame Chermidy lay upon the bed in the dress she wore the preceding evening. Her beautiful features were horribly distorted. Through her half- open lips her teeth were visible, clench- ed in the convulsion of her last agony. Her eyes stared wildly open. It was evident from the marks of blood on the floor and furniture, that she had been struck near the fire-place. and after- wards dragged to the bed. The femme de chambre, whose strength had been exhausted by the first violent outbreak of her grief, sat crouched in a corner of the room, silently and fixedly regard- ing the corpse. But when the inquest began, and she heard the testimony that seemed to confirm the idea of suicide, she burst out in passionate eloquence of deninl; and then first perceiving the count, who had thrown himself into an arm-chair and was silently weeping, she seized him by the arm, and, dragging him toward the bed, cried out in a wild voice, broken by sobs: Look! look! See the beautiful eyes that used to gaze so tenderly on you; the pretty mouth you used to kiss; the great long locks you used to twine your fingers among! Do you remember the first time you came to the Rue du Cirque? How, when they had all gone, you went down on your knees to kiss that hand! But how cold it is! And the day when the boy was borndo you remember? Who criedwho laughed then? Who swore fidelity till death? Come, now, kiss herkiss her now The count, motionless, unresisting, horror-stricken~ colder than the corpse he gazed upon, expiated in a moment three years of illegitimate pleasure. It was evident from circumstances that Madame Chermidy had not com- mitted suicide, and that the duke could not have committed the murder. Acci- dent soon revealed the true assassin in the person of Matthieu Mantoux. After two or three years passed in foreign travel, of which the Parisian world never knew the incidents, the Count and Countess Villanera took possession of their hotel in Faubourg St. Honor6 three months ago. The ex- cellent Duchess de la Tour dEmbleuso lives with them, and takes part in the management of the household and the education of a fine little girl some two years old, who resembles her mother, and is, consequently, much more beautiful than her deceased brother, the late Marquis de los Montes de Hieros. The marquis and the old duke died in the arms of Doctor le Bris, who is still the family physicianthe duke at Corfu the child at Rome, where he was at- tacked with a typhoid fever. It is said that the little marquis had a large fortune in his own right, be- queathed by a distant relation. After his death the family sold his estate, and dispensed the proceeds of it in works of charity. Such is the last French novel, which will doubtless be soon translated. The interest of the story and the skill of the narration confirm Abouts place in con- temporary French literature. BEAU NASH. LIFE AT AN ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE A HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO. BUT whom have we here? Who is How animated look his train, his out- this? Right regally he approaches riders, and the fellows clustered leg right royal is he in his appointments, and wing behind his carriage! How His six spanking grays whirl his chariot enlivening the music of the band which along in dashing style. accompanies him; how brilliant the tone Curriculo pulverem Olympicum of those horns, which startle the air Collegisse j nvat2 with their clangor. How the people 86 Beau Nash. [July, stop on every side to gaze on the cor- t~ge as it passes! How the sick poor, creeping homeward to the hospital, clasp their hands and utter benedictions on him by whose ex~rtions it was raised! How others, ladies and gentlemen of all degrees, offer him courteous homage, which he as courteously acknowledges. And now another carriage meets his, and its occupanta prince of the blood, byr lady !pulls his check-string and thus invites to conference. After a few moments conversation, the hats are raised from the heads (not, reader, the heads taken out of the hats), the Prince of Wales proceeds, and then the horns reawaken their clamor, the pos- tillions crack their whips, the fiery grays spank onwards, and in this guise the monarch of Bath, King Nash, ar- rives at the pump-room. The monarch himself was heavy in figure, coarse in feature; he had a long curled peruke-wig, surmounted by a white, or, more frequently, a yellow three- cornered beaver. He had high-heeled shoes and large buckles, blue silk stock- ings (with silver clocks) and breeches; a waistcoat reaching to his knees, and a coat with cuffs to the elbows, both profusely covered with silver lace. This was the monarch of the eight- eenth century, and an absolute monarch was he; his laws were like those of the Medes and Persians, unalterable; but it must be conceded to him that he never abused the right divine. Sur- vey we this monarch in his rule. Though Nash governed as if born to empire, the throne of Bath was not his by right; he had no hereditary claim: he was merely a citizen of the world, an idler of London, an impoverished Templar, a man living as multitudes of men did then, and do now, by his wits, when he was summoned by the voice of the people to take upon his shoulders the sovereignty of Bath. He obeyed the call, and, like the last King of the French, became the king of the people. Like all popular monarchs, King Nash was a strenuous advocate of re- form, and at Bath promoted it with all the influence of his potential voice, and enforced it with nfl the weight of his supreme authority. His first care was to improve the accommodations of his seat of empire. When he first under- took the government of Bath, it was a mean, dirty, and incommodious place; the lodgings for visitors were shabby, dirty, and expensive; the public rooms were desecrated by all sorts of vulgarity and rudeness. Under the direction and authority of their new monarch, the corporation of Bath reddified their city, and noble streets, beautiful squares, verdant gardens, soon combined their attractions with the medicinal waters of the place, to render it the most fashionable city in England. lie drew up a code of ceremonial laws which he rigidly enforced, and which were im- plicitly submitted to by the inhabitants and visitors of the city. Like all popular monarchs he became very absolute. I pray your majesty to permit us one dance more, said her Royal High- ness, the Princess Amelia, to King Nash, as the clock was striking eleven. Impossible, madam; my laws are like those of Lycurgus, immutable. But just one, Mr. Nash, persisted the princess. I regret to deny your royal high- ness anything, but it cannot be. The disappointed princess was com- pelled to acquiesce. Your grace seems to have forgotten my mandate, said he to the Duchess of Queensberry, pointing to her apron. Oh, Mr. Nash, it is such a love of an apron; look at this edging, the finest Brussels point: the shape, too, alto- gether new, and quite the ton, I assure you.~~ It is, I doubt not, all that your grace describes; and in the morning, in your domestic apartments, I shall be happy to note its beauties; but now and he held out his hand for it. But, Mr. Nash Madam persisted he, firmly, and not without a touch of rudeness. The duchess colored, hesitated a moment, and then quietly resigned the apron, saying, with much good-humor: I believe I was wrong; your majesty must forgive me. The king bowed, took the apron, and gave it to the care of an attendant. An intimation of his royal will carried with it the form of a mandate with all the gentle sexthe other was often re- fractory. The king, however, was firm, and invariably, in the end, successful. The gentlemens boots, it is said, made the most obstinate stand against his authorityfor our renders must know that up to the era of this kings reign, the fashionable assemblies of Bath were 1857.] Beau Nash. 87 held in a booth, where the ladies wore aprons and hoods at pleasure, and the gentlemen went equipped with swords, boots, and tobacco-pipes. The aprons were banished, as we have seen, though not without some demonstrations of op- position on the part of the fair sex: the tobacco and the swords disappeared, but the boots were obstinate. The good-natured king, who did not like to proceed all at once to the last extremity with his misled and refractory subjects, had recourse to stratagem to effect his purpose. About tbis time, the rep- resentations of Punch were the delight of the fashionable world, and the king of Bath announced to his loyal subjects that, for their especial recreation, the celebrated proprietor of Punch, then in the city, would exhibit a new scene in that heros life. Full of eager anticipa- tion, the fashionable world of Bath crowded to see the show; and intense, indeed, was expectation as the new scene opened with Punch and a beauti- ful lady preparing for their nights re- pose; but, to the horror of the fair one, Punch was stepping into bed with his boots on. She desired him to remove themhe refused; she remonstrated, but Punch was firm. Madam, said he, do you, a stran- ger, presume to instruct me, an inhabit- ant of this polished and fashionable city, in etiquette ?My boots! Remove my boots! why, madam, you may as well tell me to pull off my legs: I never go without bootsI never ride, I never dance without them; and this, at Bath, is considered true politeness. The lady, however, would not be ap- peased, neither would Punch submit to the wonted refraction, so the lovers separated in anger. We need hardly say that this ingenious lesson was Mr. Nashs contrivance. The historian adds, that few, there- after, ventured to appear in boots. Would our readers like to know something of the usual daily routine near a century ago in This adorable scene, Where gaming and grace Each other embrace, Dissipation and piety meet: And all whod a notion Of cards or devotion, Made Bath their delightful retreat. At this time the bath itself was the first fashionable resort in the morning, whither the ladies were conveyed in chairs, attired in their bathing-dresses, but with their heads dressed as if for an evening assembly; and while their bodies were receiving the benefit of the healing waters, their beaming counte- nances were turned to the surrounding gallery, whither the gentlemen duly re- paired to pay their morning compli- ments to the fair. Soft music played around; and that no luxury might be wanting, no sense ungratified, each lady had a small floating dish by hey side coms- taming her pocket-handkerchief, nose- gay, and a snuff-box. Could the gods in Elysium have more ?Ye powers! a finely-dressed head, a warm bath, a crowd of beaux, a band of music, a bunch of flowers, and a snuff-box! Then the water had to be drunk, and the gay invalids and fashionists of both sexes assembled in the pump-room, where three glasses, at three different times, were drunk by each hygeist, soft music still filling up the intervals be- tween swallowing water and emitting scandal. Oh, the charm of this assein- bly! talk of scandal broached at an old maids tea-party! why that is milk and honey compared to the wormwood and verjuice diffused in the aqun-solis of the pump-room at Bath. From the pump-room, the ladies ad- journed to the toy-shop, the gentlemen to the coffee-house. Then came public breakfasts, concerts, or lectures upon art and science, delivered to the sub- scribers to the rooms. These lec- tures, says one historian, are fre- quently taught in a pretty superficial manner, so as not to tease the under- standing, while they afford the imagina- tion some amusement. And then Some for chapel trip away, The m~ take places for the play; Or they walk about in pattens, Bayin,, gauzes, cheapaing satins, for now it is time for prayers, and when they are ended it is noon; and some play cards at the Assembly House, and some walk ou the Grand Parade, and others drive and others ride; and thus two hours are disposed of, and then comes that ceremony, in the due and regular performance of which all peo- ple in all places pique themselves, and which has never yielded (in itself) to the versatility of fashion. We mean dinner. Everywhere people eat din- ner (if they can get it), and yet it is 88 Beau Nash. [July, pointed out in the list of the diversions of Bath, as if the pleasant occupation appertained to that place alone. But this is owing to the undue partiality of local historians. Well: after dinner people went to church again, and thence to the pump- room; from which they withdrew to the walks, and thence to drink tea at the Assembly Houses, and the even- ings are concluded with balls, ph~iys, and mutual visits; so that Bath yields a continued round of diversions; and people, in all ways of thinking, even from the libertine to the Methodist, have it in their power to complete the day, the week, the month, nay, almost the whole year, to their own satisfaction.~~ Our readers need hardly be told that those were the days of minuets and country-dances; quadrilles were un- known, even the parent cotillon had not appeared, gallopades were unheard of, mazurkas were hidden in the womb of time, polkas were an impossibility, and as to the exotic waltz, graceful though it be, young Englishwomen of those days, how wanting soever in some of the refining characteristics of these, had not learnt unblushingly to confide themselves to the arms of mere ac- quaintance of the other sex, to bear their close and not always respectful gaze, to feel their breath on their very necks, their cheeks, fanning the hair that strays on their face! English- women can do this now, ay, and deem themselves modest, butit is the fashion. The ball in King Nashs time began at six oclock, and ended at eleven. This was a rule to which the master of the ceremonies most rigidly adhered, and from the worthiest motives, viz.: out of regard to the comfort of the in- valids, with whom the city always abounded. The minuet which opened the ball, was usually performed by two persons of highest distinction at it, and when concluded, the Bathonian King (or master of the ceremonies) con- ducted the lady to her seat, and led a new partner to the gentleman; that minuet over, both retired, and a second gentleman and lady stood up, and thus until the minuets were over, every gen- tleman dancing with two ladies. The minuets usually lasted about two hours; then came the country-dances, in which ladies of quality, according to their rank, stood up first. The strictest etiquette was enforced, and the claims of precedence were rigid- ly adhered to. In the due adjustment of these, Nash was unrivaled, and, doubtless, derived therefrom no small portion of the respect and deference with which he was uniformly treated; and a great addition was made to the comfort of the vast number of respect- able middle classes who resorted to Bath, in the courteous treatment which the monarch of all exacted for them, from those titled individuals who had hitherto arrogated somewhat too much to themselves from the circumstance of their rank. At eleven oclock, even in the middle of a dance, the King of Bath advanced up the room, raised his finger, and in an instant the music ceased. The following rules, written by Mr. Nash, and placed in the pump-room, are characterized by the historian of his life as being drawn up with an attempt at wit; he adds, however, that the wit was fully as elevated as that of the persons for whom it was intended. A writer in the Gentlemans Magazine perhaps more truly understood them, when he said that they were artfully contrived to make a kind of penalty the necessary consequence of a breach of them, and added, that they were uni- versally complied with, because they could not be violated, without render- ing the offender ridiculous and con- temptible. They will be read with some interest now, as giving us a key to the state of society generally, when we find that in the very focus of fashion and ton, such rules were not merely endur- able, but were peremptorily called for, and were admirably well adapted to the manners and habits of thoseviz.: the elite of the fashionable world for whose behoof they were promulged. They are here 1. That a visit of ceremony at first com- ing, and another at going away, are all that are expected or desired by ladies of quality and fashionexcept impertinents. 2. That ladies coming to the ball, appoint a time for their footmen coming to wait on them home, to prevent disturbances and in- conveniences to themselves and others. 3. That gentlemen of fashion, never ap. pearing in a morning before the ladies in gowns and caps, show breeding and respect. 4. That no person take it ill that any one goes to anothers play, or breakfast, and not theirsexcept captious by natare. 5. That no gentleman give his ticket for the balls to any but gentlewomenN. B. Unless he has none of his acquaintance. 1857.] Beau Nash. 89 6. That gentleman crowding before the ladies at the ball show ill manners; and that none do so for the fatnreexcept such as re- spect nobody but themselves. 7. That no gentleman or lady takes it ill that another dances hefore themexcept such as have no pretense to dance at all. 8. That the elder ladies and children be content with a second bench at the ball, as being past, or not come to perfection. 9. That the youn~er ladies take notice how many eyes observe them. N. B. This does not extend to Have-at- aIls. 10. That all whisperers of lies and scandal he taken for their authors. 11. That all reporters of such lies and scandal he shnnned by all companyexcept such as have been guilty of the same crime. N. B. Several men of no character, old women, and young ones of questioned repu- tation, are great authors of lies in these places, being of the sect of Levelers. But we must not suffer our interest in the internal affairs of his kingdom to withdraw our attention entirely from the king himself, and as, though a chosen, he was not an anointed monarch, we hope it will not be constructed into ldse- majest~, if we descant somewhat more freely on his character than it is con- sidered safe to do with regard to sove- reigns generally. Beau Nash had the unusual good for- tune to be thrown by circumstances into the very position in which he was qualified to shine. Up to the time of his arrival at Bath, his character was scarcely respectable. He had tried the law and the army, and had succeeded in neither; and, at thirty years old, he was a gamester by profession, and looked to that pursuit alone for the means of subsistence. London offered no harvest to his fraternity, save during the winter months, and the summer ones were passed at continental water- ing-places; but a visit of Queen Anne to Bath, in 1703, changed the destinies of that place, made it a resort of fash- ion, and consequently a home for gam- blers. Thither as a gamester Nash went, and his resources through life were procured by those means; but the vice in him was ameliorated in some degree by his constant, undeviating fairness, and the uprigl~tness (so to speak) of his play, when strict honor in the use of the dice was by no means a general attribute of gamesters. What he won easily he gave away freely; his generosity was great, though indiscrim- mating, his sympathy with the distress- ed never palled, his money, his time, and his earnest exertions were always ready in their behalf. Still this good- ness was more the result of constitution than of principle. When Bath, on the occasion of the visit of Queen Anne, first emerged somewhat from the ruralities of a hop to a fiddle on the bowling-green, to a subscription dance at the town-hall, a certain Captain Webster, a gamester, undertook to produce some sort of orde~ in the arrangements. This master of the ceremonies was the incipient king of Bath; he laid the foundations of its future splendid royalty. But that its internal jurisdiction remained very im- perfect, notwithstanding the improve- ments which he introduced, may be gathered from the circumstances re- ferred to above, that the ladies went to the balls in hoods and aprons, and gen- tlemen in boots; that smoking through- out the evening was usual; and that, at the card-tables, those who were unlucky compelled their autanonists (if it 50 pleased themselves) to play all night, to give them the chance of recovering their losses. And of the domestic regulations generally, some idea may be formed from the circumstance, that the floors of the best lodging-houses, all uncar- peted, were washed with a mixture of soot and small beer, which rendered them of so dark a hue that modern accumulations of dirt were not percep- tible. At this period, Beau Nash, then about thirty years of age, visited Bath. His fame had preceded him; for he had acquired much celebrity by the admira- ble manner in which a masque, entirely under his superintendence, had been got up in honor of King William, who offered the young Templar knight- hood, an unsubstantial honor, which he declined. Mr. Nash was also known to be an adept in the difficult science of etiquette, to understand rank and prece- dence to the very ininutest punctilio, and to be in himself a perfect pattern of the most recherch~ and gentlemanly fashion of the day. These circum- stances and qualifications pointed him out to the inhabitants of Bath (who had already felt the good effects even of Captain Websters imperfect rule) as a proper successor to that gentleman, and he was requested to take upon himself the superintendence and arrangement of the amusements of Bath. He ac- cepted the office; and with such skill, propriety, and energy did he address 90 ideals in Modern Fiction. [July, himself to his task, that the leading in- habitants of the place found it their own interest to support him in every- thing. rrhey did so; the crowds of visitors had no alternative but to follow the example, and thus Nashs rule be- came absolute, and he was in act and in reality, what he was universally called the King of Bath. His first endeavors were directed to the improvement of the baths, and the various accommodations pertaining to them: he had a new and handsome pump-room built; new assembly-rooms were erected; emulation was excited in various ways; new streets of commo- dious houses were built; handsome squares laid out; the roads widened and improved; and in a very few years, from an insignificant and muddling little place, Bath became a populous, flour- ishing, and most elegant city. Amid a mass of frivolity, and trifling profusion, and petty parade, many are the anecdotes recorded of Nash which would confer lustre on any man. He was a most shrewd and inveterate cen- sor of slander and calumny; this quali- fication was an invaluable one to the master of the ceremonies at a fashion- able and frivolous watering-place. His heart was most kind, his generosity great; and, though himself a professed gamester, he was never-wearying in his endeavors to prevent the young and in- experienced from gaining the habit, or from being the dupes of another. To the young of both sexes, but to the fair especially, he was at all times a kind, a cautious, and a disinterested adviser; and the grave was not closer than him- self on any domestic secret committed to his keeping. These were great points. The beneficent institution, the hos- pital at Bath, free to the poor of all England who required the waters, owed its erection entirely to his unremitting exertions. It is but incident to humanity that old age should bring its infirmities; and it is only just retribution that a long life wasted in superficial pursuits, without definite moral occupation or elevated aim, should result in an old age of querulousness and disappointment. Such, we are told, was that of Beau Nash. Still, the inhabitants of Bath forgot not their own and their citys obligation; and, on his death, at a very advanced age,* he was borne with all possible honor to the grave. IDEALS IN MODERN FICTIONI THOUGHT rules the world. Old dynasties have gone out, one after another. That of commerce is un- crowned by literature, which is the growing power; and in the kingdom of literature, the third estate is repre- sented by a multitude of novels. These have not the patrician elegance, or the old renown and lofty pretensions, of the poem, but find compensation in a firmer hold upon a greater number of minds. We must go quite out of our way to meet the poet. The novelist comes to seek us. With the poet we must fly on unaccustomed wings of music and en- thusiasm. The novelist will walk with us ia daily paths, and we are astonished to find that, after so easy an ascent by his side, we are standing on the same eminence to which the poet was wont to drag us, dizzy and gasping, through the air. We are never quite comforta- ble in our relation to these winged thinkers. They carry us as a kite car- ries a hare, but do not often enable us to fly. Sometimes they even drop and abandon us in mid-career, and, in gen- eral, we find their ascension by rhythms and rhymes, by circumlocution and gy~ ration, to be a little tediousto be a labor rather than a festival or refresh- ment. Our fine arts are too fine. Our poems do not lead us gently from the hearth, but jerk us suddenly to the re- motest corners of the earth, or beyond * He died the 3rd of February, 1761, aged eighty-seven years. The views of this writer differ from those entertaineo, and sometimes expressed, by the Monthly; but the article is quite ahie to stand by itself. ED.

Ideals in Modern Fiction 90-97

90 ideals in Modern Fiction. [July, himself to his task, that the leading in- habitants of the place found it their own interest to support him in every- thing. rrhey did so; the crowds of visitors had no alternative but to follow the example, and thus Nashs rule be- came absolute, and he was in act and in reality, what he was universally called the King of Bath. His first endeavors were directed to the improvement of the baths, and the various accommodations pertaining to them: he had a new and handsome pump-room built; new assembly-rooms were erected; emulation was excited in various ways; new streets of commo- dious houses were built; handsome squares laid out; the roads widened and improved; and in a very few years, from an insignificant and muddling little place, Bath became a populous, flour- ishing, and most elegant city. Amid a mass of frivolity, and trifling profusion, and petty parade, many are the anecdotes recorded of Nash which would confer lustre on any man. He was a most shrewd and inveterate cen- sor of slander and calumny; this quali- fication was an invaluable one to the master of the ceremonies at a fashion- able and frivolous watering-place. His heart was most kind, his generosity great; and, though himself a professed gamester, he was never-wearying in his endeavors to prevent the young and in- experienced from gaining the habit, or from being the dupes of another. To the young of both sexes, but to the fair especially, he was at all times a kind, a cautious, and a disinterested adviser; and the grave was not closer than him- self on any domestic secret committed to his keeping. These were great points. The beneficent institution, the hos- pital at Bath, free to the poor of all England who required the waters, owed its erection entirely to his unremitting exertions. It is but incident to humanity that old age should bring its infirmities; and it is only just retribution that a long life wasted in superficial pursuits, without definite moral occupation or elevated aim, should result in an old age of querulousness and disappointment. Such, we are told, was that of Beau Nash. Still, the inhabitants of Bath forgot not their own and their citys obligation; and, on his death, at a very advanced age,* he was borne with all possible honor to the grave. IDEALS IN MODERN FICTIONI THOUGHT rules the world. Old dynasties have gone out, one after another. That of commerce is un- crowned by literature, which is the growing power; and in the kingdom of literature, the third estate is repre- sented by a multitude of novels. These have not the patrician elegance, or the old renown and lofty pretensions, of the poem, but find compensation in a firmer hold upon a greater number of minds. We must go quite out of our way to meet the poet. The novelist comes to seek us. With the poet we must fly on unaccustomed wings of music and en- thusiasm. The novelist will walk with us ia daily paths, and we are astonished to find that, after so easy an ascent by his side, we are standing on the same eminence to which the poet was wont to drag us, dizzy and gasping, through the air. We are never quite comforta- ble in our relation to these winged thinkers. They carry us as a kite car- ries a hare, but do not often enable us to fly. Sometimes they even drop and abandon us in mid-career, and, in gen- eral, we find their ascension by rhythms and rhymes, by circumlocution and gy~ ration, to be a little tediousto be a labor rather than a festival or refresh- ment. Our fine arts are too fine. Our poems do not lead us gently from the hearth, but jerk us suddenly to the re- motest corners of the earth, or beyond * He died the 3rd of February, 1761, aged eighty-seven years. The views of this writer differ from those entertaineo, and sometimes expressed, by the Monthly; but the article is quite ahie to stand by itself. ED. 1857.] Ideals in Modern Fiction. 91 the limits of the visible mundane sphere. Milton transports his reader as far as the kingdom of Chaos and old Night. Dante hurries him away from~the green earth, from the blue heaven, to walk among the damned, among the purified. The shock is almost too great for healthy nerves. The poet tears me from my seat by the fire, from the bright circle of home, from the inter- ests of my estate, my neighborhood, my culture. Out of every liberal en- terprise, he snatches me and whirls me away as far as Purgatory, as far as Par- adise, before he will drop me a word of wisdom, and when he speaks, all his mu- sic and eloquence cannot quite overcome a lingering homesickness which half occupies my mind. I shall not do the work or reap the pleasure of to-morrow in Hades or in Heaven, but here in the midst of my friends and neighbors, in the studies, endeavors, and relations which surround me. I am building a house, planting a garden, striving to organize a reading club, a musical so - ciety, a lyceum, to elevate the tone of my own circle, to carry forward the civilization of our parish. Such an un- dertaking demands every faculty, en- grosses my time and attention, involves the solution of every moral problem, the application of all spiritual laws to the affairs of life, and I cannot afford to be spirited away from it into the upper or the nether deep, to grope my way, among conditions which do not belong to meto ends remote from the purpose of my working day. But the novelist comes to my hearth- stone; with him I am at home. Instead of the cherubic host in thousand choirs, and the loud uplifted angel trumpets, he gives me a comfortable concert, such as I may hope and live to hear. He gives me music of Mozart and Beethoven, or the joyful, earnest vocal harmony of the German four-part song, which lifts me as high as I am capable of mounting honestly, upon wings of my own emotion. The nov- elist represents a healthy naturalism, a return from the lawless excursions of barbaric fancy to the plain level of facts and forces, out of which our ideal world is to be fashioned by practical endeavor. The poets have rather sep- arated than joined the ideal and actual. They should have bridged the chasm and offered us hope and encouragement. The novelists push them aside, and show that to all we dream and desire, to fair relations, cheerful influences, and worthy opportunity, we may find or make a way, not through chaos, or the seven heavens, or the siege of Troy, or the court of King Arthur, but through the very conditions and circum- stances in which we find ourselves en- gaged. The poets must share this tendency. They must learn to walk upon firmer ground, and to commend the highest, by ability to speak the lowest truth. So much common-sense as a man has, so much currency he can give to his supe- rior sense. The poets have lost power by every liberty they have taken with the facts of nature and history. Could they not see the significance of ordina- ry events of experience common to all. These alone are great. Birth, death, love, marriage, the home circle, the struggle for a livelihood, the search after truth in a world full of rumors and traditions, have these no interest that I must busy myself with dragons and enchanters, with vagabond knights- errant, with dwarfs, and giants, and genii, and the thousand children of a fancy which builds castles in the clouds and dodges the work of the world? The wise heart finds more beauty and promise in the humblest history, than in all these nebulous splendors. The lit- tle black boy at my foot, if the meaning of his poor obstructed life could be shown, is more worthy of attention than all the angels and archangels of song. No destiny can be higher than that of the little black boy. He will not have wings in a hurry, he will not be like the black giun who takes the fancy of children by his stature and his flight through the darkness, bearing beautiful princes in his arms, but he will be a man. Who can tell us what it is to be a man, even the most unfor- tunate; a man in ordinary circumstan- ces, with ordinary advantages? Who has tried? Hardly the poet. He is even now addressing himself to the task. In England, the noblest of the nobility are endeavoring to take up new and democratic honors before the old hereditary dignity falls quite away. A lord is lecturing, a thousand men of rank are busy with problems of labor and education. So the poets are obliged to abandon their old privilege of playing in the air to show like eagles 92 Ideals in Modern Fiction. their spread of wings and majesty of motion. They must help us to lift what we are obliged to carry. We will not set no- blemen or poets any longer on high, to be idle and admired, as early ages were content to do. They must help direct- ly, or we turn to men who will help, and leave them, where they can neither shine nor sing, in a vacuum of neglect. The novelists have made an honest effort. They have told such truth as they found to tell. We take occasion, first to thank them heartily for good service rendered, and then to inquire whether, on the whole, they have been large-minded enough to give us a fair and just picture of life in this planet. I have been born into certain stubborn conditions. My parents are moderately stupid, or narrow, or violent, and they stand in the way of my growth. My companions are busy, or greedy, or hard-natured, and do not understand my aims. I must get bread and shelter. I must establish a moral relation to my fellows, must stand for something and be a centre of influence, better or worse. rrhe books, the newspaper, the preach- ers hinder and help. Sometimes I think my labor would be lighter, if no man had ever thought, or offered explana- tion which needs again to be explain- ed. The attempt to dispose orderly of stories, rumors, traditions, and theories afloat in the air, is like the first organi- zation of chaos. Yet the .creative im- pulse is strong in every child. He must struggle in his lot to conform the disorder of the actual to the order of the mind. This effort of the soul to find expansion, to find a field for free activity for expression, and reinforce- ment, we hame the ideal tendency, and the object of our poetry and novel writ- ing is to show the certain, though ar- duous, victory of the spirit over all obstructions. If, in any work, the soul appears superior to matter, able to over- rule conditions, and make where it can- not find an opportunity to do its work, and take its joy in livingthat work is ideal. Ideality is manifested not in avoid- ing inevitable laws, but in revealing a force able to control them and make them servants of thought and affection. There are two elements to be con- sidered in.our review of a work of art: the positive force exhibited, and the [July, more or less obstinate resistance to it by fate and societythe strength of supernatural, and the impediment of natural laws. The balance between these old antagonists makes either a hard and well won, or an easy and cheerful, victory. The work, which shows a desperate struggle, is helpful to every reader whose life is yet a bat- tle. That which represents a large success, is dear to all who have secured the ordinary advantages of fortune who have comfort and culture, and are masters of leisure and of society. For this last class few books are written. We put in a petition for them. They are very much in need of help. Their enemies are ennui and luxury. They have no longer the stimulus of poverty and contempt. They are housed, and fed, and flattered, and too well content. These democrats, the novelists, are thoughtful first of their own order, and they are not yet ready to remember the poor rich man, the poor pedant, the poor doctors of law and medicine and divinity, the poor professors of logic and anatomy. The learned, who feed laboriously upon saw-dust, are as grate- ful as the ignorant hungry for a draught from the bottle of the idealist, who pro- poses to break up all routineto burst every barrier which confines the fer- menting liquor of life. Look at all the novels, and consider how many are directly helpful to the readers of this article. We find only Wilhelm Meister and The Elective Affinities distinctly ad- dressed to the cultivated mind. When the warm-hearted Novahis read Meister for the first time, he declared it a tho- roughly prosaic work. But we learn that, being drawn to take up the book again, he continued, during his life, to read it regularly twice a year. He was at first repelled by the coldness and simplicity of diction, the absence of sentimentality, and the common-place character of many scenes, actors, and motives in the plot. Students, making a just demand, continue to complain that the most earnest desires of the race are not represented in the book; that the religion of a fair saint is exhibited from an intellectual and exte- rior, not a vital point of sight, and that, excepting Mignon, who is dear even to the cold heart of criticism, there is no character to be loved in all the brilliant company. Still the idealism of the 1857.] Ideals in Modern Fiction. 93 work is not to be denied. We have here displayed the effort of a young man to find culture and exercise for his artistic faculties; and though he falls into the society of mountebanks and harlequins, he also draws to himself many noble hearts. Lie establishes relations with men of widely-different pursuits, engages the interest of a society whose object is a liberal culture and co6peration, and the whole atmos- phere of the book is that of intellectual and testhetic activity. Since Wilhehn Meister was published, the world has been flooded with novels. But they offer no picture or suggestion of a soci- ety which we can freely enjoy. And yet, the novel, like poetry, should sub- mit the shows of things to the desires of the mind, and give us some hint of the manners and enterprises which ought to fill our tedious days. From the satirist, or critic in fiction, we do not expect poetry. Dickens attacks abuses, unroofs the debtors prison, crucifies the Barnacle family, astonishes the Circumlocution Office, petrifies bigotry, and fills the margin of his picture with specimens of petty knavery and very exasperated snobbery in high and low life. Among some thirty characters, he gives us, perhaps, five, with whom we should not, decidedly, object to associate, although, it must be confessed, their company is a little dull. The knaves and fools give animation to the work. They are only tedious because they fill so many pages, and have everything so entirely their own way. The highest ideal in the book is that of common honesty and common kindness an aff& ctionate daughter, an affectionate father, a friendly, considerate young man, are given us to admire, and they are approachable only through the crowd of ignorant, selfish, vulgar semi-savages. The hero of Dickens is like that tem- perance lecturer, whose drunken brother accompanied him, to serve as a shock- ing example, and persisted in occupying more than his share of the attention of the audience. But from Dickens, from Thackeray, we do not demand ideality. If they give us a little sentiment, we receive it thankfully as a gratuityas a dish not promised in the bill of fare. From these men we look for exploration of dark corners, and we are glad to see their wretched inhabitants lighted by the sunshine of sympathy, not scorched with a flame of reprobation. The French novels are also critical, not ideal. They expose an abyss of sensuality and ferocity, so that reading the Mysteries of Paris is like look- ing into a den of fierce nnd filthy beasts, rendered more horrible by the transpa- rent human faces which express their lusts and passions. We do not laugh over these scenes. We hardly expend even pity on the characters we meet in them. They corrupt their readers into a frantic excitement and degraded sym- pathy, or repel him into healthy dis- gust. They show the semewhat extrav- agant virtue of one or two favorite characters struggling for self-preser- vation in an ocean of corruption. The young heartthe best heartis almost drowned in this whirlpool. Madame Sand can with difficulty keep her Con- suelo pure. She is obliged to confess that youth, health, and opportunity, conspiring with the ardor of a lover, are enemies to virtue almost irresistible. This child, though blessed with the coldest temperament and a strong ideal tendency, conquers with difficulty, and after a doubtful struggle with the fire of temptation in her blood and in her thought. It is well that every ulcer should be probed. But our interest in the opera- tion shows how little we expect from life. The basest activity is more enter- taining than our own enterprises. So we read Balzac and Eugene Sue, and are surprised to learn how much there is, after all, to admire and enjoy in a life of sentimental beastliness. French novels are like brandy and water and cigars. They reach and irritate a brain which is impervious to finer influences. But George Sand, in Consuelo, has offered us a distinct ideal. The elevating, purifying influence of the art impulse she has felt. She knows that it is no mere self-indulgence, or seeking after beauty and pleasure, which makes the artistic temperament, but a sense of the Infinitea haunting presence of perfection which, in proportion to its power, subordinates the senses and delivers man to a life that is not only beautiful, but good. Still her artist is alone in the world, thwarted, misunder- stood, suspected, imprisoned,~ind hated; is taken for a lunatic or a fool. Neither Albert nor Consuelo have their natural influence. They do not control circum 94 Ideals in lllodern Fiction. [July, stances or reorganize the society around them, as every ideal element tends to do. Their art serves only to keep vital heat in themselves, to separate them from vice and folly. It should animate a circle of lovers, and quicken other ideal forces flowing out into new expres- sion in sculpture, painting, poetry, and the conduct of life. We know very well how little art has done for Europe or the world, hut Madame Sand recog- nizes the ascension and true power of music. Why has she never given us a picture of that power in exercise? Why are her artists thrown, one into the bottom of a dry well, which serves him for a lunatic asylum, the other into that court, which the egotism of Fred- eric converted into a prison, even for his sister. We complain that in all our novels there is too much fate, too much acci- dent and hrute force, too much repres- sion and too little power. The spir- itual energy revealed in them is not strong enough to procure for itself suc- cess and acceptance. The aspiration of every hero is baffled. Ho is not able to organize a serene and helpful activ- ity, but is beaten down by suspicion and conservatism, and is poorly con- soled for the failure of his life by some sugar-plum, by a suitable marriage or a timely inheritance. What does Jane Eyre propose to do with Mr. Rochester after she has mar- ried and adopted him. He is a poor, broken, shipwrecked mariner, on the waters of passion and self-indulgence, whom she, with the strength and cour-, age of an angel, has drawn to shore. r~ his burnt-out bully, after worrying and insulting the dependent girl, whose love was no secret to him, is now tho- roughly subdued by misfortunes. He begins life anew, a tiger deprived of teeth and claws, dependent for every pleasure on the heroic heart beside hiina heart always so much stronger, so much deeper than his own. In Jana Eyre, as in Charlotte Brontil, the grandest natural endowment, the utmost heroism, is barely able to sus- tain itself and make life tolerable in the midst of crushing neglect and discour- agement. The book Jane Eyre is a cry of agony. It is a protest against shock- ing injustice and injury. In Christian England, three young girls, daughters of a clergyman, arc starved at school, and left, lonely and unregarded, to eat out their young hearts in activity at home. These children cry out of cold and darkness. Jane Eyre is a passion- ate appeal to common humanity against the civilization of England, which com- mits the education of children to such machinery as the system of boarding- schools, and degrades all culture, in the person of the despised governess, That dreadful dummy, as Curtis calls her, in the English game of life. There is, in the novels of Goethe himself, no woman able to accomplish what Jane Eyre has done. The tran- quil, thoughtful, and tender Ottilie, whose nature is like the upper sky, filled only with sunbeams, which kindle the very clouds into forms and fountains of light, would have lacked that concen- trated energy which commands the re- spect and admiration of Rochester. Ottihie could not live and leave the ob- ject of a love forbidden by her moral sense. In Jane Eyre, we see the strug- gle, and predict the victory of a force, more mighty than any revealed in the world of the German master, yet the heroes and heroines of Goethe expand like flowers in sunshine, and, however crossed by circumstance, their natural tendencies are developed both by good and evil fortune. He shows the triumph of an ideal which is not the highest, and gives us so much more ofhope and courage. Mrs. Gaskell has written a novel which deserves to be read. In North and South, the attraction of incident is subordinated to that of character, and the principal figures are titanic in strength and simplicity. We are made acquainted with two large-natured lovers, but the book af- fords no outlook beyond their marriage. This happy event, which ought to be the beginning of a life worth studying and showing, is made a blank wall, and terminates our view. Children may be satisfied when Margaret is folded in the arms of Mr. Thornton; but men and women know that the power of loVe in these young hearts is yet to be tried. Will it lead to a gradual adjustment of moral forces, in two natures which have encountered happily at a single point? Formal marriage is common enough, and we all know that the road to it winds through Paradise, and passes the margin of the pitbut is true marriage possible? Can there be conjunction of 1837.] Ideals in Modern Fiction. 95 thought and will without loss of person- al independencewithout destruction of the charm of remoteness and virginity of spirit? Can there be union yet free- doin and spontaneity of impulse? Can blind tenderness become clear-sighted and not die? Can the energies of chosen companions be harmonized and directed together to the highest ends? To these questions our novelists and poets have given no answer. In John Halifax we have a picture of married life. No modern writer has painted more forcibly the dawn of loves morningno one has more magnified the expectation with which a noble heart awaits and entertains its sacred ray. Yet the marriage is here a point of departure, and introduces the career of one gentleman. The idealism of this hook is intense but narrow. There is in it no society, no festival, no influence of art or literature. The life of the hero is strictly domestic and moral, full of the sternness of duty and the bitter- ness of a long struggle with misfortune and injustice. For this is another pro- test against the inequality of social con- ditions in England. It is a strong book, but affords no large view of life. In it only the moral element is developed only devotion to duty is honorednot love of beauty or of truth. While read- ing, we are in church and not in nature. It is a world like the heaven of Sweden- borg, wherein the secular sun is dis- placed by a moral luminary, whose ray is neither intelligence nor joy, but a sentiment of unmingled obligation. We have a single American novel, Mar~aret. Its criticism is directed against the old dogmatic theology of New England. Its ideal element is the expansion of a young mind, so dear to nature that it will not be contained in such a system. Yet the heroine is only delivered from dogma to dogma, and in the end of the book we are outraged by the advent of a sentimental millennium. The author is a theologian, who has broken the shell of a narrow creed, but could not throw off the creed-makin~g tendency and become a poet. Miss Bremers page is healthy though her circle is small. In her conception of home she is happy, and has made, perhaps, the best contribution toward a solution of the vexed question of womans destiny. She has shown true poetic power, giving interest and sig nificance to common events by disclos- ing their relation to life, and to the development of character. There is ideality in her young heroines. They have a vague consciousness of powers unexercised of rudimentary wings. In every house there is a plain sister, who solaces herself as no young woman ever twice attempted to do, by reading Plato in solitude. In Bertha, however, we have the old complaint, the old despair. She is another lonely victim, only reaching to prophesy and prepare a better condi- tion for her sex. The influence of woman is crushed in the house of her hard father. The early hisery of his children is dismal skip. Tragedy, to be tolerable, must be grand and im- posing. Great calamities may be en- dured in fiction or reality, but the death in life, which falls upon gentle natures subjected to the tyranny of dogmatism, selfishness, and conceit, is too dismal to contemplate. If the tragic element be employed in art, it should not largely enter in the shape of moaning women, hard-eyed husbands, and deluges of Lethe. We will not accuse novelists, espe- cially women, of aiming at a vulgar effect, and seeking to excite and agitate feeble minds. They plainly celebrate sorrows they have felt, injuries they have borne. We ask them only to con- sume in private their private griefs, and publicly to do some justice to the gen- eral joy. From every partial report of the ten- dency of human nature toward perfec- tion, we return with pleasure to the broad and sunny page of Goethe. He is open-eyed to the infinite variety of interests in life. His characters are not emphasized as saints, as heroes, as lov- ers, because they have a widely-diversi- fied activity which prevents the mor- bid concentration of force upon a single point. Some example we have here of every kind of spiritual development. The interest of the tale is distributed among many actors; their peculiarities are marked and significant. In each is exhibited a moral activity, whose direc- tion is carefully shown. When once the bias, impulse, and motive of character is distinctly indicated, the artist stops. He will not carry out any tendency to ex- treme results, but leave the mind of the render to complete that history. The curious, experimenting, impressible Wil 96 Tdeals in Modern Fiction. [July, helm is assisted by older observers and actors. We cannot afford to lose the company of one of these menof ono of these women. In each is revealed an element that must be cultivated in us that must be limited and guarded. They have virtues, they have vices; but, at the worst, they live, and act, and grow. Here is reinforcement of character, which in nature is always amelioration; here is growth in wisdom and skill, for truly in every breast there is some measure of aspirationsome freedom and obedience to the attraction of beau- ty, truth, and excellence in one or other of. their innumerable manifestations. We may demand of the novelist, since Goethe has furnished so high a stand- ard, that the ideal tendency which he exhibits shall have fair play, and not be overwhelmed or exhausted in a struggle with conditions. We will be grateful to those who, like Charlotte Bront~, show us the central fire of the inextinguish- able spirit expanding under the burden of mountains and continents, which it cannot yet upheave for its own deliver- ance; but we need to see the same ele- ment sustaining the happy world of or- ganization and intelligence. The power of heat is shown, not in volcanic convulsions, but in its vital re- lation to plants, and animals, and man. The strength of Jane Eyre, and Ro- chester, and Consuelo is condensed like that of pent-np lightning in a cloud. We need to see the same force diffused, like the electricity which stirs in the air and water, in the sap and in the blood. For the ideal should visit us not to make misery tolerable, but to render common life a cheerful satisfac- tion. We want imaginary companions who will draw near to us on the level of every-day experiencewho will take up all that is best in culture and en- deavor, and walk in advance of us, hearing our burdens. The wise have accepted such companions, instruments, and enterprises as they find in the world, and are striving and learning to use them. Upon many abuses, judgment is speedily passed. Our novels are hot arguments upon questions no longer open in any sane mind. We concede to the author of Uncle Toms Cabin, Lhat slavery, if not a bad, is at least an unfortunate relation. Then that book falls to the ground. We are all demo- crats in principle ; we despise castes and classes in society; we agree with Thackeray and Dickens, that common honesty and common decency are neces- sities of life. We dispose of several tons of fiction by simply declaring that a self-respect superior to snobbery, and a social system which affords equal op- portunity to all, are decidedly desirable, and very few people doubt it. But who will tell me what to do with my day? I am haunted by a suspicion that it is as good as any day; that it would be no better if it were filled with moving accidents. They would only, as we say, divert methat is, draw me off from the way of enduring happiness. I want a permanent and large activity, and there is surely work enough to be done in every village before society will be possible among men. I want sympathy and coOperation, and I see in the breasts of my neighbors a latent humanity whose extent is incalculable, and which points toward everything dear to me. If I could be taught to take hold on what is so near me, some- thing great and beautiful might yet be done even here. I have passed the period of romance. Only children wait for adventures. I do not look for sudden wealth or pover- ty. I do not expect to fall in love with a princess, a beggar, or an opera-dancer. I can earn my bread, and am not ex- posed to great misery in any turn of the wheel of fortune. Is life, then, for me no longer worth living? After the dragons are all killed, what shall we do? The great poet, only, can answer this question. I-fe can show power in his figures, without throwing them into convulsionscan exhibit in sunshine the energy which is capable of fronting every storm. It is surely better worth while to see men helpful, than to see them contending. Civility is fairer to behold than barbarism. What mind will outrun the confusion that roars around and fills tho noisy century, to anticipate the next ages, and show to what good result our best mental and moral effort is conducting man? The right novel, the true poem, is a hand that points forward. It will show the manhood, not the childhood, of the race. It will not need to elaborate a black background of misfortune to serve as a foil for doubtful happiness, but will exhibit an activity so splendid that it must shine in relief upon the dingy gray of ordinary circumstamices, duties, and relations. 1857.] 97 THE BALAAMS. A T the present moment, of course, we are all in the country. Those of us who are not in the country are in Europe. Those of us who are not in Europe are still further away. The great point is, that we are not at home. We are somewhere else. We come to town for a day, and look at it curiously. We sleep in our own city beds for a night; hut we are not in town. We say good-morning to the cham- bermaid as to a stranger. We contem- plate the parlors as places we used to frequent. We are in the house; but we are not at home. Who could he at home on straw car- pets? Mattings they are called by superior housekeepers. Will anybody mention why, in a climate where we leave the fire with many a lingering, longing look, in June, and return to it in September, we put up muslin cur- tains and put down straw mattings? It is a preposterous innovation of the tro- pies. Is anything more thoroughly dis- mal than the American gentleman in thin drillings, promenading upon a straw matting, while the bars of his grate are scarcely cool, and it was but yeiterday that he slid dowa his own ice-glazed front door steps upon his own back? I have seen Balaam do both these things. Mrs. Balaamwhom I name with re- spect, knowing my happiness and thank- ful for itMrs. Balaam is what is fondly termed a superior housekeeperan ac- tive, enernetic woman. Mrs. Balnani might easily have invented straw mat- tings. At least she uses them rigorously and ia the proper seasons. One ad- miresas the older English has it what a baby-house Mrs. Balaam must have had ia the days of her youth. One sighs to think how the roses must have withered, under ceaseless wash- ings, in the cheeks of Mrs. Balaums dolls. That, of course, was long before she came, saw, and conquered the worthy man whose name she adorns, and whose home she keeps in a manner which is the despair of all the easy- going, hoopy, flouncy, little women, who have made sundry tomtits happy by allowina them to pay their dry- goods bills. VOL. x.7 In March, Mrs. Balaam says, Spring will soon be here, my dear ; and she looks around her well-scrubbed mansion with the eye of a woman who is not to be put down by any shams and shows of cleanliness. Her husband finds her on chairs, dusting the tops of door-frames in the chamber, and sighs to hear her say: How dirty this house is its shameful ! The good Balaama mild man, of course (Mrs. Balaams always marry mild men, or make them so)does not dareto cherish any hmiddea corner for litter. He is dreadfully perplexed with his pieces of string and paper. What- ever he doeshowever he tries to de- stroy their existence by casting them into the fire, or throwing them into coal-scuttles, or drawers, or wherever else his tortured invention suggests lie is sure to hear Mrs. Balaam crying out to him: Dont, dont, my dear! How can you litter about so? Its as much as my life is worth to keep this house decent ! Balaum, as a bachelor, smoked. He has only a vague remembrance of it. He looks at men who take their ease with their cigar, with an incredulous curiosity. Once, and once only, he smoked since his marriage. It was at a supper, late at night. Balaam was, probably, flown with wine. When the party broke up, Balaam remember- ed he must go homego, in fact, to bed. That reflection sobered him. Now a man who has not only passed the evening in a warm room with smokers, but has himself smoked, cannot hope to conceal his crime: he can only endure its consequences. Of course, under the circumstances, Baloam resolved to pass the night out-not to go home at all. Rut the vision of Mrs. B., sitting up for him all night in her night-cap, as grand inquis- itor, and saying: BALAAM, WhERE AND WITH WHOM DID YOU PASS THE NIGHT ? was too overwhelming. He was sure that he could never explain his absence to the satisfaction of Mrs. B. Her sighs of martyred wifehood and womanhood would force him into a pre- mature grave. He, therefore, resolved to go home. But he found the way home like the

The Balaams 97-100

1857.] 97 THE BALAAMS. A T the present moment, of course, we are all in the country. Those of us who are not in the country are in Europe. Those of us who are not in Europe are still further away. The great point is, that we are not at home. We are somewhere else. We come to town for a day, and look at it curiously. We sleep in our own city beds for a night; hut we are not in town. We say good-morning to the cham- bermaid as to a stranger. We contem- plate the parlors as places we used to frequent. We are in the house; but we are not at home. Who could he at home on straw car- pets? Mattings they are called by superior housekeepers. Will anybody mention why, in a climate where we leave the fire with many a lingering, longing look, in June, and return to it in September, we put up muslin cur- tains and put down straw mattings? It is a preposterous innovation of the tro- pies. Is anything more thoroughly dis- mal than the American gentleman in thin drillings, promenading upon a straw matting, while the bars of his grate are scarcely cool, and it was but yeiterday that he slid dowa his own ice-glazed front door steps upon his own back? I have seen Balaam do both these things. Mrs. Balaamwhom I name with re- spect, knowing my happiness and thank- ful for itMrs. Balaam is what is fondly termed a superior housekeeperan ac- tive, enernetic woman. Mrs. Balnani might easily have invented straw mat- tings. At least she uses them rigorously and ia the proper seasons. One ad- miresas the older English has it what a baby-house Mrs. Balaam must have had ia the days of her youth. One sighs to think how the roses must have withered, under ceaseless wash- ings, in the cheeks of Mrs. Balaums dolls. That, of course, was long before she came, saw, and conquered the worthy man whose name she adorns, and whose home she keeps in a manner which is the despair of all the easy- going, hoopy, flouncy, little women, who have made sundry tomtits happy by allowina them to pay their dry- goods bills. VOL. x.7 In March, Mrs. Balaam says, Spring will soon be here, my dear ; and she looks around her well-scrubbed mansion with the eye of a woman who is not to be put down by any shams and shows of cleanliness. Her husband finds her on chairs, dusting the tops of door-frames in the chamber, and sighs to hear her say: How dirty this house is its shameful ! The good Balaama mild man, of course (Mrs. Balaams always marry mild men, or make them so)does not dareto cherish any hmiddea corner for litter. He is dreadfully perplexed with his pieces of string and paper. What- ever he doeshowever he tries to de- stroy their existence by casting them into the fire, or throwing them into coal-scuttles, or drawers, or wherever else his tortured invention suggests lie is sure to hear Mrs. Balaam crying out to him: Dont, dont, my dear! How can you litter about so? Its as much as my life is worth to keep this house decent ! Balaum, as a bachelor, smoked. He has only a vague remembrance of it. He looks at men who take their ease with their cigar, with an incredulous curiosity. Once, and once only, he smoked since his marriage. It was at a supper, late at night. Balaam was, probably, flown with wine. When the party broke up, Balaam remember- ed he must go homego, in fact, to bed. That reflection sobered him. Now a man who has not only passed the evening in a warm room with smokers, but has himself smoked, cannot hope to conceal his crime: he can only endure its consequences. Of course, under the circumstances, Baloam resolved to pass the night out-not to go home at all. Rut the vision of Mrs. B., sitting up for him all night in her night-cap, as grand inquis- itor, and saying: BALAAM, WhERE AND WITH WHOM DID YOU PASS THE NIGHT ? was too overwhelming. He was sure that he could never explain his absence to the satisfaction of Mrs. B. Her sighs of martyred wifehood and womanhood would force him into a pre- mature grave. He, therefore, resolved to go home. But he found the way home like the 98 The Balaams. [July, road Jordan. It was a very bard one to travel, and he ~vent very slowly. It was a bitter midwinter midnight, but Balaam moved as leisurely as Romeo from Juliets balcony. He reacbed his house, at length, and ho found his own keyhole without difficulty. In truth he was only too much awake too profoundly aware of his situation. He certainly never opened the door so softly before, and never before crept so noiselessly up stairs undressing, as there is reason to believe, in the dark. It was evident that he hoped not to dis. turb the innocent slumber of his spouse. But scarcely had his head touched the pillow than, without saying a word, she arose, opened every window in the ~om, opened the doors, opened the windows in other rooms, and betook herself, in majestic scorn and silence, to a remote and solitary chamber for the rest of the night. For two days those windows were inexorably open, and all the doors. Un- challenged winter reigned. The serv~ ants left. Mrs. B. went about in her bonnet and furs. She sent the children to her sisters. Balnams nose was blue the whole time. Mrs. Balaam did not speak of tobacco, but she shuddered and compres~ed her mouth from time to time, and said to him, in a dry, wiry tone, as they sat shivering in the parlor: Isnt it dreadful! But what care you do where a house smells so By April the Balnam spring-cleaning sets in. Mrs. Balnams costume during this month is an old black bombazine bonnet, a tartan shawl, and india-rub- bers. The house is damp and cold, and Balaams study is put in order and well washed. The carpets are taken up and turned over into the middle of the room; the pictures are covered with linen sheets, and the furniture is strewn about the room, packed under table-cloths which are made fast around the legs of chairs and book-cases. Balaam tumbles over mops and falls into slop-pails, and eats his dinner in a corner of the kitchen, while the indomitable wife is charging, at the head of a brigade of washers and sweepers, upon specks of dust that she suspects may have settled in various parts of the house. Mrs. Balaam is not beautiful at this season; but she hopes Christian wives and mothers have something better to do than to be ornamental sticks of candy. Balaam feebly suggests little excur- sions into the country. My dear BAaam, she replies, stopping upon the stairs with a faded handkerchief wound about her head, a limp morning- wrapper upon her person, and odd gloves with holes in them on her hands, which hold, the one a duster, and the other a broom, my dear Balnam, could you sleep comfortably if you kiiew you had run away, like a coward, from a house which was a HEAP OF FILTH ? Balnam sinks into silence under an overwhelming sense of universal dirt, and, in complete confusion of mind and a false perception of proprieties, wipes his clean shoes carefully upon the mat as he goes out at the front door into the street. When the spring cleaning is over, the indefatigable Mrs. Balaam reposes her haiids and feet, but not her eyes nor her mind. They are busily engaged in spying out new contaminations of that household purity, and devising fresh campaigns against dirt. Then, as if still pamiting from the spring cleaning, she suddenly summons all her forces and begins to put to rights for the sumnier. This process is one of baling and bagging. In early June, the parlor furniture looks as if it were all just going to bed. The chandeliers and candelabras have on night-caps, and the easy-chairs and lounges, baggy night-gowns. The pictures are tucked up behind musquito-nets, and the clock, muffled in gauze, stops and sleeps. The matting is put down, and then comes another change. The odor of the straw is foreign and sickly. It suggests the East Indies and elepliantiasis; and suddenly the whole parlor, in that cold, dreadful odor, becomes a hospital, and the chairs, lounges, and clock are all in long bed-gowns, with frightful dis- eases. When the hideous effect is completed, Mrs. Balnam declares that Balnam must take her to the country for fresh air. Balaam does not resist. He is carried to railroad stations, and eiigages in fear- ful quarrels with porters, merely because Mrs. Balaam stands by, among the boxes and trunks, holding the family umbrella, and he prefers to settle with the porter, at any risk, rather than with Mrs. B. The same scenes take place at the steamboat landings. Bat Balaam weakly thanks his stars that Mrs. B. prefers to 1857.1 The Balaams. 99 settle the fare with the hackmen herself. With an imbecile sense of relief, on these Occasions, the poor, prostrate Balaam says to her, with feeble jocularity, My dear, you are the only fair that the coachman cant settle. They go into the country. The house lies under the warm side of a hill. There are no trees. The Balnam bed-room is ten feet by fifteen, with a double bed in it, and the trunks about the floor. There are wall-paper shades over the windows, in which the July sun nestles all the day long. There are fried pork and heavy home-made bread for breakfast, and venerable boiled beef and cabbage for dinner hearty, homely fare, Mrs. Balaam says none of your watering- place kick-shaws. Balaam bleats mild protests at inter- vals; and lately, as he was strolling along the dusty road, holding a cotton umbrella with one hand, to shield him from the sun, and with the other brand- ishing a cotton handkerchief about his brows to wipe the exuding moisture, ho met a friend from town, going on to the sea-shore. Ab, Balaam, my boy, how do you like your lodging? B., who has a vague sense of the omnipresence of Mrs. B., and always speaks as in her dread hearing, an- swered: Oh! very well. \Vell, said his lugubrious friend, I should think, if you were not eaten up with the musquitoes, did not come down with the fever and ague, or the bilious fever, or the gastric fever, or the low, slow country feverand if you dared to he out in the evening, or sleep with your windows open, or go in to batheit might be quite tolerable, only it must be infernally hot, of course. Mr. Balaam rose one morning with the firmness of despair, and said, with a careless, semi-resolute air, to his wife: My dear, I think I shall smoke a cigal. Very well, Mr. Balaam, as there is no spare room in the house, you will have to sleep in the barn. He did not sleep in the barn; but he dreamed all night of being rolled up tight in a piece of straw matting, which smelt of Manilla diseases, and being scrubbed hard, on his defenseless face, hy the energetic mop of l3elinda Ba- laam. I, who thank my stars that I am a jolly old bachelor, and who am the indi- vidual you see dancing every polka, every evening, at every hotel in New- port, who have no wife nor family, but that cigar and book, to which you have probably never heard any bachelor allude I often wonder how it hap- pened; how he came to do itI mean, how they ever came to be married. That form of asking the question is a little painful to me, but it is quite strongly impressed upon my mind, and you shall know why. I am, in fact, bald. The family hair falls out early, and my head shines, at this moment, like a huge ostrichs egg. In church, on Sundays, I usually leave a glove on the top of my head to protect it from draughts, for I hate the falsity of a wig. Before Balaam removed into his present house, which it is Mrs. Ba- laams pride to keep clean, we hoarded together, and I took pleasure in toying with an only child of theirs, who, I am devoutly thankful, has been since re- moved to a distant boarding-school. One evening Balnam asked me in to tea. Now, though bald, I was not old; I was marriageable yet; I could still sigh and sing, and my toilette was choice and exact. rrhe company was not large, and it was silent. I have noticed that the Balaam parties are, in a word, dread- ful. Mrs. Balaam looks as if she were ready to mop up or sweep away upon the instant any remark that should chance to he dropped. The conse- quence is, that people grin, and squirm, and look at books of engravings, at the little social festivals of the Balaams, and smile so kindly upon dear Mrs. Balnam when they go away, thanking her for such a charming evening. Why should people arrange their hair, and put on lace dresses, and jewels, and gloves, and carry a bouquet, for the sake of look- ing into the Balaam picture-books? As this party was a tea-party it was not large, and we all sat. You know what tragical moments of depression come over the best regulated tea-p ar- tiesbut an ordinary festivity of the kind is a revel compared with this. The Balnam tea-parties are what the French would call solemnities. At this par- ticular one I endeavored to carry it off gayly. I smiled and chatted, and laughed at my own humor, and criti- cised the pictures in the drawing-room album, and tried in every way to 100 A Short Exercise frr the Fourth of July. [July, enliven the profound melancholy of the occasion. But in the midst of one of my cheeri- est efforts, while the eyes of the compa- ny were all fixed upon me, the young heir of Balaamsince happily removed, as I saidcame and stood in front of me, and regarded me so steadfastly that my attention and that of every person in the room was attracted to him. Sud- denly, as he stood staring before me, he began to rub the top of his head, still gazing at me. I thought the brat had gone out of his ridiculous wits, and paused; so did everybody else; perfect silence reigned in the room, while this wicked child kept rubbing the top of his head, and, contemplating the re- fulgent top of mine, he at length, in a load voice, asked, before that company, How DYE DO IT ? I pardoned the laughter of the par- ty; I laughed myself. And whenever, since, I wonder at any circumstance, the formula of my inquiry is the Maine; and, therefore, when I think of the Ba- laarns, I always wonder how they did it. I know how it will be when they come home in the autumn. For weeks the house will smell of pepper, camphor, and tobacco, as the carpets, and cur- tains, and winter clothes are unrolled. Mrs. B. will come out in great force in every department. Pickling and preserving, and consequent checked- aprons and curl-papers will set in. In the latter days of September Balnam will rub his hands, and say hopefully: Most time foi a fire ! Mrs. Balaam, who is a woman of fixed principles, takes this symptom at the very outset, and replies: You know, Mr. Balaam, that we never have fires until after the fifth of November; its a foolish extrava- gance; dont pamper yourself! Balaam has given up smoking; he has given up drinkin~ wine; he has given up going to the theatre ; he has given up driving, or buying books, which only clutter up the house. He has given up askin~ a friend to dinner, or to pass the night. lie has given up wearing a dressing-gown or slippers in the parlor, or reading the newspapers there, or putting his legs over the arms of the easy-chairs. He has given up little excursions, or linger- ing in the morning, after breakfast. He has given up having the rooms at a higher temperature than 650. He has given up walking up and down the drawing-room, and going up the front stairs. He has given up scolding the servants for bringing him cold plates at dinner, and cold water for shaving. He has given up throwing a sixpence to hand-organs, and looking out of the window at dancing-monkeys, and put- ting the evening paper over his head and going to sleep. He has even given up all curiosity to know how he did it. And having given up alt the flesh and blood of life, Balaam is quite ready to give up the ghost. A SHORT EXERCISE FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. EIGHTY-ONE years have passed since the most memorable docu- ment, ever submitted to the approval of a free people, was read to the con- gress of the United States, assembled in a neighboring city. It was not rati- fied by that burst of external enthusi- asm by which persons of more mercurial temperaments usually receive the pro- gramme of a revolution in their political situationfor large assemblies, ever hopeful, usually expect improvement from changebut with a sturdy English resolution and self-confidence, like that of the barons who wrested JliEagna Ghar- hi from King John, and the convention which replaced the corrupt and effete Stuarts by the present reigning house personified in the Hollandish William. Yet the iron will and calm fixedness of purpose which animated the delegates from every province between New Hampshire and Georgia, which made the Puritan, the Quaker, the votary of the church of England, the Irish Catho- lic, and Rochelle Huguenot to lie down together, as the lion and the lamb are described in holy writ, was yet as fit a theme for the pen of a historian as the wildest scenes any chronicle records. The document was no holiday decla- ration of rights already won, no holiday

A Short Exercise for the Fourth of July 100-107

100 A Short Exercise frr the Fourth of July. [July, enliven the profound melancholy of the occasion. But in the midst of one of my cheeri- est efforts, while the eyes of the compa- ny were all fixed upon me, the young heir of Balaamsince happily removed, as I saidcame and stood in front of me, and regarded me so steadfastly that my attention and that of every person in the room was attracted to him. Sud- denly, as he stood staring before me, he began to rub the top of his head, still gazing at me. I thought the brat had gone out of his ridiculous wits, and paused; so did everybody else; perfect silence reigned in the room, while this wicked child kept rubbing the top of his head, and, contemplating the re- fulgent top of mine, he at length, in a load voice, asked, before that company, How DYE DO IT ? I pardoned the laughter of the par- ty; I laughed myself. And whenever, since, I wonder at any circumstance, the formula of my inquiry is the Maine; and, therefore, when I think of the Ba- laarns, I always wonder how they did it. I know how it will be when they come home in the autumn. For weeks the house will smell of pepper, camphor, and tobacco, as the carpets, and cur- tains, and winter clothes are unrolled. Mrs. B. will come out in great force in every department. Pickling and preserving, and consequent checked- aprons and curl-papers will set in. In the latter days of September Balnam will rub his hands, and say hopefully: Most time foi a fire ! Mrs. Balaam, who is a woman of fixed principles, takes this symptom at the very outset, and replies: You know, Mr. Balaam, that we never have fires until after the fifth of November; its a foolish extrava- gance; dont pamper yourself! Balaam has given up smoking; he has given up drinkin~ wine; he has given up going to the theatre ; he has given up driving, or buying books, which only clutter up the house. He has given up askin~ a friend to dinner, or to pass the night. lie has given up wearing a dressing-gown or slippers in the parlor, or reading the newspapers there, or putting his legs over the arms of the easy-chairs. He has given up little excursions, or linger- ing in the morning, after breakfast. He has given up having the rooms at a higher temperature than 650. He has given up walking up and down the drawing-room, and going up the front stairs. He has given up scolding the servants for bringing him cold plates at dinner, and cold water for shaving. He has given up throwing a sixpence to hand-organs, and looking out of the window at dancing-monkeys, and put- ting the evening paper over his head and going to sleep. He has even given up all curiosity to know how he did it. And having given up alt the flesh and blood of life, Balaam is quite ready to give up the ghost. A SHORT EXERCISE FOR THE FOURTH OF JULY. EIGHTY-ONE years have passed since the most memorable docu- ment, ever submitted to the approval of a free people, was read to the con- gress of the United States, assembled in a neighboring city. It was not rati- fied by that burst of external enthusi- asm by which persons of more mercurial temperaments usually receive the pro- gramme of a revolution in their political situationfor large assemblies, ever hopeful, usually expect improvement from changebut with a sturdy English resolution and self-confidence, like that of the barons who wrested JliEagna Ghar- hi from King John, and the convention which replaced the corrupt and effete Stuarts by the present reigning house personified in the Hollandish William. Yet the iron will and calm fixedness of purpose which animated the delegates from every province between New Hampshire and Georgia, which made the Puritan, the Quaker, the votary of the church of England, the Irish Catho- lic, and Rochelle Huguenot to lie down together, as the lion and the lamb are described in holy writ, was yet as fit a theme for the pen of a historian as the wildest scenes any chronicle records. The document was no holiday decla- ration of rights already won, no holiday 1857.] A Short Exercise for the Fourth of July. inauguration of a monument of triumphs already achieved, but the solemn decla- ration of men who knew no such word as fail, of a fixed purpose to plant the tree of libertynot to wither, as the olive branch of sunny France subse- quently withered, but to stand like our own live-oak, almost eternal and ever- green. That declaration has become the evangel of nations struggling to be free, and its defects cannot be looked on as inherent, but, like the Spanish moss, were parasitic and accidental, easily to be torn away, and never des- tined to do aught than veil the trunk of the firm and sturdy oak. They were not destined to remain. For that reason, when we read the Declaration of Inde- pendence, it does not seem to us like the emanation of a human mind, but assumes the grandeur and type of in- spiration; and men in despotic lands, where liberty is treason, and the enun- ciation of the truth, that men are born equal, is a crimeall reconnize Thomas Jefferson as the very apostle of popular right, and the Paul of the gospel of independence. The clear and distinct paragraphs, the grand yet simple elo- quence, show this declaration was not a Rhcetors display, but the enunciation of the yearnings of a great and good man, who was aware of his duty to his nation, and willing, as he expresses it himself, to pledge his life, his fortune, and his sacred honor for its salvation. It is at this time peculiarly proper to look back on Mr. Jeffersons glorious participation in the work, of which he might aptly say, quorum magn.a pars fiti, and to show the mistake of those who pretend, at this day, to honor his memory, while they are engaged in the most subtle attacks on what he consid- ered to be cardinal principles of the Union he formed, and for which he pledged his name, fame, and fortune. If we look through his biography and his lettersfar more interesting even than those of Cicero to an American we shall everywhere find clear and manifest indications of his abhorrence of the institution of slavery. Coleridge says, that there are axioms so true, that they lose their power and require a new demonstration to be brought home to the mind; and of this kind is the cer- tainty that the first and most earnest free-soil politician in the country was 101 Thomas Jefferson. In these opinions he was firm and consistent, having, as he states in his autobiography, intro- duced a bill for the abolition of slavery into the colonial legislature, before the Revolution, and continued its consistent opponent until a few days before his death. On this subject he says: Iii 1769, I became a member of the legis- lature by the choice of the country in which I live, and so continued until it was closed by the Revolution. I made one effort in that body for the permission of the elnancipation of slaves, which was rejected, and, indeed, durin~ the re~al government, nothin~ liberal could expect success. Thus Mr. Jefierson began his public career by an effort for the emancipation of the slaves of his own state, before he made himself illustrious by far happier efforts for the establishment of national independence. His was no sentimental patriotism, hut he loved liberty, for it- self alone, in its broadest sense, and did not distinguish between chains for the individual and for the masses. He hated slavery per se, and his mind was too philosophical not to be aware that the establishment of an instance recog- nized the principle. In the unamended portion of the De- claration of Independence, Mr. Jefferson speaks, in his own strong and peculiar style, of what he thought one of the greatest tyrannies of the government of George III.: I-Ic has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating its most sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their passa~e thither. 1his piratical warfare, the opprobrium of infidel powers, is the war- fare of the Christian King of Great Britain. Determined to keep open a market where men should be bought and sold, he has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain this execra- ble commerce. And that this assemblage of horrors might want no fact of distinguished die, he is now exciting those very people to rise in arms among us, and to purchase that liberty, of which he has deprived them, by murdering the people on whom lie has ob- truded them; thus paying off crimes which he has committed against the liberties of one people, with crimes which ho urges them to commit agaiiist the lives of another At every stage of his political life, this subject seems to have occupied his thoughts; amid, even when discharging Imigh duties in Paris, he thus writes to Dr. Price: * Vol. i., p. 376. A Short Exercise for the Fourth of July. PARIs, August 7,1785. Sir :Your favor of July 2d came duly to hand. The concern you therein express, as to the effect of your pamphlet in America, in- duces me to trouble you with some observa- tions on that subject. From my acquaintance with that country, I think I am able to judge, with some degree of certainty, of the manner in which it will have been received. Southward of the Chesa- peake, it will find hut few readers concurring with it in sentiment, on the subject of slavery. From the mouth to the head of the Chesa- peake, the bulk of the people ~vill approve it in theory, and it will find a respectable mi- nority ready to adopt it in practicea minority which, for weight and worth of character, prepondcrates against the greater number, who have not the coura~e to divest their families of a property which, however, keeps their conscience unquiet. Northward of the Chesapeake, you may find, here and there, an opponent to your doctrine, as you may find, here and there, a robber and murderer, but in no greater number. In that part of America, there being but few slaves, they can easily disencumber themselves of them: and emancipation is put into such a train, that in a few years there will be no slaves north of Maryland. In Maryland I do not find such a disposition to begin the redress of this enor- mity, as in Virginia. This is the next State to which we may turn our eyes for the inter- esting spectacle of justice, in conflict with avarice and oppressiona conflict wherein the sacred side is gaining daily recruits, from the influx into office of young men grown, and growing up. These have sucked in the principles of liberty, as it were, with their mothers milk; and it is to them I look with anxiety to turn the fate of this qnestion. Be not, therefore, discouraged. What you have written will do a great deal of good; and could you still trouble yourself with our wel- fare, no man is more able to give aid to the laboring side. The college of William and Mary, in Williamsburg, since the remodeling of its plan, is the place where nine collected together all the young men of Virginia, under preparation for public life. They are under the direction (most of them) of a Mr. Wythe, one of the most virtuous of characters, and whose sentiments on the subject of slavery are unequivocal. I am satisfied, if you could resolve to address an exhortation to those young men, with all that eloquence of which you are master, that its influence on the future decision of this important question would be great, perhaps decisive. Thus you see, that, so far from thinking you have cause to repent of what you have done, I wish you to do more, and wish it on an assurance of its effect. The information I have received from Ameri- ca, of the reception of your pamphlet in time different States, agrees with the expectations I had formed. About the same time, breaking through diplomatic restraints, he writes the following letter to Mr. Warville :* Pxums, February 12, 1788. Sir I am very sensible of the honor you propose to me, of becoming a member of the society for the abolition of the slave trade. You know that nobody wishes more ardently to see an abolition, not only of the trade, but of the condition of slavery; and certainly no- body will be more willing to encounter every sacrifice for that object. But the influence and information of the fl-lends to this propo- sition in France will be far above the need of my association. I am here as a public serv- ant, and those whom I serve, having never yet been able to give their voice abalust the practice, it is decent for inc to avoid too public a demonstration of my wishes to see it abol- ished. Without serving the cause here, it might render me less able to serve it beyond the water. I trust you will be sensible of the prudence of these motives, therefore, which govern my conduct on this occasion, and be assured of my wishes for the success of your undertaking, and the sentiments of esteem and respect with which I have the honor to be, sir, your most obedient humble servant. If, however, there was a subject in which Mr. Jefferson felt more interest than in any other, when ho was able to divest himself, so to say, of his catholic sympathies, and narrow his colossal mind to the level of the analysis of lower intellects, it was on all that touched his home, Virginia. In his Notes on Virginia, published both in America, France, and England, he thus expresses himself :1 It is difficult to determine on the standard by whiels tIme manners of a nation may be triedwhether catholic or particular. It is more difficult for a native to brin~ to that standard the manners of his own nation, famil- iarized to him by habit. There must, doubt. less, be an unhappy influence on the manners of our people produced by the existence of slavery among us. The whole commerce between master and slave is a perpetual exer- cise of the most boisterous passionsthe most unremitting despotism on the one part, and degi-ading submissions on the other. Our children see this, and learn to imitate it; for man is an imitative animal. This quality is the germ of all education in himn. Fi-om his cradle to his grave, he is learning to do what he sees others do. If a parent could find no motive either in his philanthropy or his self- love for restraining the imitemperance of pas- sion towards his slave, it should always be a sufficient one that his child is present. But generally it is not sufficient. The parent storms, the child looks on, catches the himmen- mnents of wrath, pumts on the same airs iii time circle of smaller slaves, gives a loose to the worst of passions, and thus nursed, educated, and daily exercised in tyranny, cammuot but be stamped by it with odious peculiarities. rho man must be a prodigy who can retain his mnanners and momals umindepraved by such cir- cumstances. And with what execration should the statesman be loaded, who, permit- ting oxme Imalf tIme citizens thus to trample on the riglmts of the other, transforms those into despots, and these immto enemiesdestroys the morals of the omme part, and tIme amor patrime Vol. ii., p. 357. t Vol. viii., p. 403 102 [July, 1857.] A Short Exercise for the Fourth of July. 103 of the other. For if a slave can have a country in this world, it must be any other in preference to that in which he is horn to live and labor for anotherin which he must lock up the faculties of his nature, contribute, as far as depends on his individual endeavors, to the evanishment of the human race, or entail his own miserable coudition on the endless ~enerations proceeding from him. With the morals of the people, their industry is also destroyed; for in a warm climate no man will labor for himself who can make another labor for him. This is so true, that of the proprietors of slaves, a very small proportion, indeed, are ever seen to labor. And can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basisa conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are the gift of God? That they are not to be violated but with his wrath. Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just; that his justice cannot sleep forever; that, considerin~ numbers, nature, and natural means only, a revolution of the wheel of fortune, an exchan~e of situ. ations is among possible events; that it may become probable by supernatural interference. ihe Almighty has no attribute which can take side with us in such a contest. But it is impossible to be temperate and to pursue this subject through the various considerations of policy, of morals, of history, natural and civil. We must be contented to hope they xviii force their way into every ones mind. I think a (han~e already perceptible since the or~in of the present Revolution. The spirit of the master is abatingthat of the slave risin~ from the dusthis condition is mollifyin~the way, I hope, preparing, under the auspices of heaven, for a total emancipationand that this is disposed, in the order of events, to be with the consent of the masters, rather than by their extirpation. The following extract shows that Mr. Jefferson looked on the abolishment of slavery as equally important to the true interests of the white as of the black; but that he looked forward to the eolo- nization of the negro outside of the United States. The multiplication of population has, since his day, made this scheme chimerical, and the extract is given merely to show that he did not consider the domestic institution a blessing:* To emancipate all slaves born after the passing of the act. The bill reported by the revisers does not itself contain this proposition; but an amendment containin~ it was prepared, to be offered to the legislature whenever the bill should be taken up, further directing, that they should continue with their parents to a certain age, then to be brought up, at the public expense, to tillage, arts or sciences, according to their geniuses, till the females should be eighteen, and the males twenty-one years of age, when they should be colonized to such place as the circumstances of the time should render most proper, sending them out with arms, implements of household and of the handicraft arts, seeds, pairs of the useful domestic animals, etc. ; to declare them a free and independent people, aiid to extend to them our alliance and protection till they have acquired strength, and to send vessels, at the same time, to other parts of the world for an equal number of white inhabitants: to induce them to migrate hither, proper encourage- ments were to he proposed. The foregoing extracts show plainly, what Mr. Jefferson thounht of slavery, and leave us in no doubt of his opinion of the feasibility of maintaining slavery in connection with true republican insti- tutions. He prayed, worked, and toiled, for the eradication of tlsis evil, from the Old Dominion he loved so well, al- most from Isis boyhood to his very death; and the large party which, in the convention of the people of Virginia, advocated the abolition of slavery, im- mediately after his death, understood itself to be speaking his views. That party was unsuccessful, from the fact that interest swayed principle. It left be- hind it, however the nucleus of thought gradually ripening, and certain, at no distant day, to sweep away all vestige of a daffier age, as Mr. Jefferson called slavery. That Mr. Jefferson never approved of maintaining slavery, always esteemed it a curse, and one of the chief evils imposed on the province by the royal government, we think is not to be contra- dicted. A very little study of his cor- respondence must satisfy any one that he would have strenuously labored to reverse the decision of the Supreme Court in the Dred Scott case. In the sevenths volume of his correspondence we find the following letter on the Su- preme Court, to Mr. Jarvis, which shows Isis idea of the federal bench, and the dangers to be apprehended from it.t MONTIcEaLO, September 28, 1820. I thank you, sir, for the copy of your Repub. licae, which you have been so kind as to send, and I should have acknowledged it sooner, but that I am just returned home after a long ab. senee. I have not yet had time to read it so. riously, but in looking over it cursorily, I see much in it to approve, and shall be glad if it shall lead our youth to the practice of think- in da such subjects for themselves. That it wfll have this tendency, may be expected, and for that reason I feel an urgency to note what I deem an error in it, the more requiring no- tice as your opinion is strengthened by that of many others. You seem, in pages 81 and 148, to consider the judges as the ultimate arbiters Letters, vol. viii., pp. 38(1, 381. VoL vii., p. 177. A Short Exercise for the Fourth of July. of all constitutional questions; a very danger- ous doctrine indeed, and one which would place us under the despotism of an oligarchy. Our jud~es are as honest as other men, and not snore so. They have, with others, the same passions for party, for power, and the privilege of their corps. Their maxim is, boni judicis est ampliare jnrisdictionem, and their power the more dangerous as they are in office for life, and not responsible, as the other functionaries are, to the elective con- trol. The constitution has emected no such in~le tribunal, knowing that to whatever hands confided, with the corruptions of time and party, its members would become despots. It has more wisely made all the departments codqual and cosovereiba within themselves. If the le~,islature fails to pass laws for a cen- sus, for paying the jud~es and other officers of government, for establishiug a militia, for naturalization as prescribed by the consti- tution, or if they fail to meet in congress, the judges cannot issue their mandamus to them, if the president fails to supply the place of a judge, to appoint civil or military officers, to issue requisite commissions, thej nd~es cannot force him. They cau issue their mandamus or distrin~as to no executive or legislative of- ficer, to enforce the fulfillment of their official duties, any more than the president or legis- lature may issue orders to the jnd~es, or their officers. Betrayed by English example, and unaware, as it should seem, of the control of our constitution in this particular, they have at times ovcrstepped their limit, by undertak- ing to command executive officers in the dis- charge of their executive duties; but the constitution, in keeping three departments distinct and independent, restrains the author- ity of the jnd~es to judiciary or~ans, as it does the executive and legislative to execu- tive and legislative em-guns. The judges cer~ tainly have more frequent occasion to act on constitutional questions; because the laws of meum and tuum, and of criminal action, forming the great mass of the system of law, constitute their particular department. When the legislative or executive functiona- ries act unconstitutionally, they are responsi- ble to the people in their elective capacity. The exemption of the judges from that is quite dangerous enough. I know no safe do- positoiy of the ultimate powers of the socie- ty, but the people themselves; and if we think them not enlighten ed enough to exercise their control with a wholesome discretion, the remedy is not to take it from them, but to in- form their discretion by education. This is the true corrective of abuses of constitutional power. ~Pardon me, sir, for this difference of opin- ion; my personal interest in such questions is entirely extinct, but not my wishes for the longest possible continuance of our govern- ment on its pure principles. If the three pow- ers maintain their mutual independence on each other, it may last long, but not so if either can assume the authorities of the other. I ask your candid reconsideration of this subject, and am sufficiently sure you will form a candid conclusion. Accept the assur- ance of my great respect. Now, if the federal courts cannot cx- ercise authority over property, is it not irrefragible that they are powerless over persons? And here let us quote a paragraph from Mr. Jeffersons letter, to a confi- dential agent, which we think will be somewhat a stumbling-block to the in- veighers against a higher law :* The question you pi-opose, whether cii- cumstances do not sometimes occur which make it a duty in officers of high trust to assume authorities beyond the law, is easy of solution in principle, bat soisiethues em bar- rassing in practice. A strict observance of time writtems laws is, doubtless, one of the high duties of a good citizen; but it is not the highest. Time laws of necessity, of self-pres- ervation, of saving our country whea in dan- ger, are of higher obligation. The following extract from Mr. Jef- fersons letter would seem to indicato that the decision in the Dred Scott cas4, by the Supreme Court, would have been considered by him of no avail. If the interpretation we put on it be true, the Supreme Court has merely uttered a speculative opinion, no more binding in law than it is in reason and in the great principles of humanity.f The second question, whether the judges are invested with exclusive authority to decide on the constitutionality of a law, has been here- tofore a subject of considem-ation with me in the exercise of official duties. Certainly, there is not a word in the constitution whicW has given that power to them, more than to the executive or legislative branches. Questions of property, of character, and crimeme, beimig ascribed to time judges, through a definite course of le~ai proceeding, laws imivolving such questions belong, of course, to them; and, as they decide on them ultimately and without appeal, they, of course, decide for themselves. The comistitutional validity of the law or laws, again, prescribing executive action, and to be administered by that.branch ultimately and without appeal, the executive must decide for themselves, also, whether, under the constitution, they are valid or not. So, also, as to laws governing the proceedings of the legislature, that body must judge for itself time constitntionmdity of the law, amid equmdly without appeal or control for mis coor- diisate branches; and, in general, that branch, which is to act ultimately and without muppeal on ammy law, is the rigtmtfmml expositor of time validity of the law, uneonti-olled by time opini. ens of the other cofinrdinate autlmorities. it may be said that contradictory decisions may arise iii such case, and produce immeonvenience. This is possible, and is a necessary failin iii all human proceedings. Yet, time prudence of time public funetionmiries, amid the authority of public opinion, will generally produce ac- coumismedation. Such an instammee of indiffer- ence occurred between the judges of England (in the time of Lord Ilolt) miuud lime house of * Letters, voL v., p. 542. Letters, vol. vi., p. 461. 104 [July, 1857.] A Short Exercise for the Fourth of July. 105 Commons; but tho prudence of those bodies prevented inconvenience from it. So in the cases of Duane, and of William Smith, of South Carolim, whose characters of citizen- ship stood precisely oa the seine ground, the judges, in a question of meum and tuam which caine before them~ decided that Duane was not a citizen; and, in a question of mom- 1)ership, the House of Representatives, under tbe same words of the same provision, adjud~ed William Smith to be a citizen. Yet no incon- venience has ensued from these contradictory decisions. This is what I believe, myself, to be sound. But there is another opinion enter- tained by some men of such judgment and information as to lessen my confidence in my own. That is, that the leAslatnre alone is the exclusive expounder of the sense of the consti- tution, in every part of it whatever. And they allege, in its support, that this branch has authority to impeach and punish a member of either of the others, actin~ contrary to its declaration of the sense of the constitution. It may, indeed, be answered, that an act may still be valid,although the party is punished for it, right or wron~. However, this opinion, which ascribes exclusive exposition to the legislature, merits respect for its safety, there being in the body of the nation a control over them, which, if expressed hy rejection, on the subsequent exercise of their elective franchise, enlists public opinion against their exposition, and enconra~es a jud~e or executive on a future occasion, to adhere to their former opinion. Between these two doctrines, every one has a right to choose, and I know of no third meriting any respect. I have thus, sir, frankly, without the honor of your acquaintance, confided to you my opinion. That the federal judiciary was not at all consonant with the views of Mr. Jef- ferson will be evident from the following extract from his message to Congress, Dec. 8, 1801: The judiciary system of the United States, and especially that portion of it recently erect- ed, will, of course, present itself to the contem- plation of Congress; and, that they may be able to jud~e of the proportion which the in- stitution hears to the business it has to perform, I have caused to be procured from the several states, and now lay before Congress, an exact statement of all the causes decided since the first establishment of the conrts, and of those which were depending when additional courts and jad~es were brought in to their aid. And, while on the judiciary organization, it will be worthy your consideration, whether the protection of the inestimable institution of juries has been extended to all the eases involving the security of our persons and property. rheir impartial selection also bein~ essen- tial to their value, we ou~ht further to consider whether that is sufficiently secured in those states where they are named by a martial de- pending on executive will, or designated by the court, or by officers dependent on them. These, and other extracts from Mr. Jef- fersons writings, would clearly enough show his opinion on the two great mooted points of the daythe question of slave- ry, and the powers (Jf the federal courts. If we be not mistaken, they show his democracy to have been a real, not a pseudo-creed, and demonstrate the De- claration of Independence not to have been a lawyers special plea, but the declaration of a philosopher on the sub- ject of the great and immutable rights of man. how, then, can the people of the South place themselves on the broad platform of Jeffersonian demo- cracy, which ~vas so catholic that it fully sustained Lord Mansfields decision that slaves could not exist in Eng- land. - The destruction of slavery was the dream of Mr. Jeffersons life. He did not live to see it realized; but as cer- tain as fate itself is its destruction in Virginia. He dreamed through the whole of his life of the destrtsction of slavery, and under the federation and under the union sought to accomplish it. When the western territory was ceded by Vim-ginia and the other united colonies, soon ufter the lievolution, the duty of forming laws for the gov- ernment of the west region devolved on the committee of which Mr. Jefferson was chairman, and Howell of lien- tucky and Chase of Maryland were members. They reported a plan of government for the territory, one of the provisos of which, by Mr. Jeffer- son, and written out by himself, was as follows: That after 1800, of the Christian el-a, there shall be neither slavery nor involuntary servi- tude in any of the said states, otherwise thass in )uaishment of crimes, whereof the pasty shah be founil to have been personally guilty. On the 19th of August, 1784, Con- gress, on motion of Mr. Spaight, of N. C., Mr. IRead seconding the motion, struck out this proviso, six states voting ny and three nay; and thus (the fed- erul constitution requiring a majority of states) slavery was not admitted, but not prohibited in the territories. In 1787, the continental congress, sitting in New York simultaneously with the convention which formed the federal constitution at Philadelphia, passed an ordinance for the government of the western territory north of the Ohio, which contained, substantially, all Mr. Jeffersons provisos, and concludes with the following perpetual contract There shall be neither slavery nor invol 106 A Short Exercise frr the Fourth of July. notary servitude in the said territory other- wise than a punishment of crimes, of which the parties shall he duly convicted. That Mr. Jefferson looked forward to the certain revival of the anti-slavery agitation, and its final disruption of the federal compact, unless it were prevent- ed in the only way he ever seems to have dreamed the matter could be set- tledby the abolition of slaveryis proven by the following letter to his friend Hugh Nelson :* MONTIcELLO, March 12, 1820. I thank you, dear sir, for the information in your tkvor of the 4th instant, of the settle- ment for the present of the Missouri question. I am so completely withdrawn from all atten- tion to public matters, that nothing less could arouse inc than the definition of a geographic- al line, which, on an ahstract principle, is to become the line of separation of these states, and to render desperate the hope that man cnn ever enjoy the two hlessings of peace and self- government. The question sleeps for the pres- ent, hut is not dead. In a letter to Mr. Rush, he indi- cates very plainly what he would have thought of the attempt to fasten slavery on Kansas:f Nor is our side of the water entirely un- troubled; the boisterous sea of liberty is iiever without a wave. A hideous evilthe ma ni- tude of which is seen, and at a distance, only, by the one party, and more sorely felt and sincerely deplored hy the other, from the diffi- culty of the eniedivides us at this moment too angrily. The attempt hy one party to prohihit willing states from sharing the evil, is thou~bt by the other to I-coder desperate, by accumulation, the hope of its final eradie tion. If a little time, however, is given to both par- ties to cool, and to dispel their visionary fears, they will see that, concurring in sentiment as to the evil, moral and political, the duty and interest of hoth is to concur, also., in devising a practicahie process of cure. Should time not he given, and the schism be pushed to separation, it will he for a short time only two or three years trial will bring them hack, like quarreling lovers, to renewed embraces, and increased affections. The experiment of sepa- ration would soon prove to both that they had mutually miscalculated their host interests. And even were the parties in Congress to se- cede, in a passion, the soberer people would call a convention, and cement a~ am the sev- erance attempted by the insanity of their func- tionaries. Wish this consoling view, my great- est grief would be for the fatal effect of such an event on the hopes and happiness of the world. We exist, aiid are quoted as standin~ proofs that a government, so modeled as to rest continually on the will of the whole socie- ty, is a practicable government. Weme we to break to pieces, it would damp lIsa hopes and the effoits of the good, and give triumph to those of the bad, through the whole enslaved [July, world. As members, therefore, of the univer sal society of niankiiid, and standing in high and responsible relation with them, it is our sacred duty to suppress passion among our- selves, and not to blast the confidence we have Inspired of proof that a government of reason as hotter than one of force. This lettei- is not of facts hut of opinions, as you will observe; and, although the converse is generally the most acceptable, I do not know that, in your situation, the opinions of your countrymen may not be as desirable to be known to you as facts. They constitute, indeed, mom-al facts, as important as physical ones to tIme attentlo. of the public functionary. Wishing a long career to the services you may render your country, and that it may be a career of hap- piness and prosperity to yourself, I salute you with affectionate attachment and respect. No one, we presume, will pretend to say that Kamisas is anxious to share the evil. One more extract on ~he judiciary of the United States, taken from a letter to Thomas Ritchie, editor of the Rich- mend Enqitirer, should startle Judge V. V. Daniel, ~vho grew up almost at the knee of Mr. Jefferson. Its subject is the book of John Taylor, of Caroline: Construction Construed. Bat it is not from this branch of govern- ment we have most to fear. Taxes aiid short elections will keep them right. The judi- ciary of the Ummited States is the subtle corps of sappers and miners constantly workiob un- der ground to underlnine the foundations of our confederated fabric. They are construin~ our constitution from a codrdination of a gene- ral and special government to a general and supreme oiic aloac. This will lay all things at thmeii feetand they are too well veriest in English law to for~et the maxim, boni judicis cit ampliare jurisdictionem. We shall see if they are bold enough to take the daring stride their five lawyers have lately taken, if they do, then, with the editor of our book, in his address to the public, I will say, that against this every man should raise his voice; and, more, should uplift his arm. Wh& wrote this adumis-able address? Sound, luminous, strong, not a word too much, nor one which can be changed, but foi- the worse. That pen should go onlay bare these wounds of our con- stitutionexpose time decisions seriatim and arouse, as it is able, the att ation of the na- tion to these bold speculators on its patience. Having found, fiom experience, that impeach- ment is an impracticable thinga mere scare- crowthey consider themselvss secure for life; they skulk from responsibilities to pub- lic opinionthe only remainin~ hold on them. Under a practice first introduced into Eng- land by Lord Mansfield, an opinion is hud- dled up in conclave, perhaps by a majority of one, delivered as if unanimons, and with the silent acquiescence of lazy or timid asso- cafes, by a crufty chief judge, who sophmisti. cates the law to Imis mimud by the turn of his own reasoning. A judiciary law was once reported by the Attorney Gemicmal to Congress, * Letters, vol. vii., p. 151. Letters, vol. vii., p. 182. 1857.] House-Building in America. 107 requiring each judge to deliver his opinion se- riatim and openly, and then to give it in writing to the clerk, to be entered in the record. A judiciary, independent of a king or executive alone, is a good thing; hut inde- pendence of the will of the nation is a solecism, at least in a republican govern- ment. These extracts bring us down almost to the date of the death of Mr. Jeffer- son, who, as we have seen, was spared the excitement of other days, when party prejudices became far greater. On the 4th of July, 1826, when the nation was everywhere rejoicing, and when countless ears were hearin0 read his grand Declaration of Independence, the spirit of the old patriot passed away. His colleague, Mr. Adams, was the companion of his last journey, and meet it was that those two men should die together. They, as much as any other two, had built up the nation; they had piloted the ship of state through many a storm, and, full of honors and of years, were entitled to rest. Were they with us to-day, is there a doubt that they would unite in the most determined resistance to the effort which some of our countrymen are now making, to establish among the normal institutions of this nation a cus- tom which they considered to be whol- ly an evil, and for a speedy extirpation of which their hope was codrdinate with their faith in the pronressive civilization of mankind? hOUSE-BUILDING IN AMERICA.* WITHIN the last six months, several works on building have been pub- lished in this country, and although no one of them is of any very great im- portance, we shall make them the text of some words on the general subject so far, at least, as it concerns us Amer- icans. The two hooks, whose titles are given below, are the most recently published. Mr. Cleavelands is a pleasant little volume, written in a clear, unambitious style, and containing many excellent hints and suggestions; but the illustrations are very poor, and the designs do not appear to be well-considered. Indeed, on looking over the plans and exteriors with care, it must appear surprising that the authors of the book should have fancied themselves proper guides of the public tastefor there is not a single house presented for our examin- ation which has not some ugly feature predominating scarcely one whose proportions are not badwhile the plans are of the most meagre and incon- venient description. Narrow and wind- ing halls, cramped stair-cases, bed- rooms and kitchens opening into par- lors, and without other means of access, the kitchen and parlor opening upon opposite sides of the hall directly you open the front door; all these minor miseries abound in these places, and present themsclves as well in the costly as in the cheaper structures. It is evi- dent that house-building has never been studied as an art by these gentlemen, at least this decision would be the result of an examination of the engravings, but the letter-press which describes theimi, and comments upon them, shows not only feeling and enthusiasm, but judg- ment and honesty of purpose. Perhaps this is the result of triple authorship; we do not pretend to account for the discrepancy; it most certainly exists. Mr. Vauxs book presents us with a similar inconsistency, for he offers us a collection of designs and plans, many. of them worthy a careful examination, but his comments upon them do not please us. Nevertheless, it is very evi- dent that Mr. Vaux fully understands his profession, so far as all technical mutters are concerned; for there has been no book published in America, on the subject of architecture, which is more thorough than this one. rrhe plans are the best part of the book, and The Requirements of American Village Homes considered and sng~ ested; with Designs for such Rouses at modct-ate cost. By H. XV. CLEAv LANo, WiLomAui BAcKUs, amid SAMUEL 11 BA CKUS. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 1857. Villas otid Cotta5 es. A Serses of Designs prepared for Execution in the United States. By CALvERT VAux, Architect. New York: harpers, 1857.

House-Building in America 107-111

1857.] House-Building in America. 107 requiring each judge to deliver his opinion se- riatim and openly, and then to give it in writing to the clerk, to be entered in the record. A judiciary, independent of a king or executive alone, is a good thing; hut inde- pendence of the will of the nation is a solecism, at least in a republican govern- ment. These extracts bring us down almost to the date of the death of Mr. Jeffer- son, who, as we have seen, was spared the excitement of other days, when party prejudices became far greater. On the 4th of July, 1826, when the nation was everywhere rejoicing, and when countless ears were hearin0 read his grand Declaration of Independence, the spirit of the old patriot passed away. His colleague, Mr. Adams, was the companion of his last journey, and meet it was that those two men should die together. They, as much as any other two, had built up the nation; they had piloted the ship of state through many a storm, and, full of honors and of years, were entitled to rest. Were they with us to-day, is there a doubt that they would unite in the most determined resistance to the effort which some of our countrymen are now making, to establish among the normal institutions of this nation a cus- tom which they considered to be whol- ly an evil, and for a speedy extirpation of which their hope was codrdinate with their faith in the pronressive civilization of mankind? hOUSE-BUILDING IN AMERICA.* WITHIN the last six months, several works on building have been pub- lished in this country, and although no one of them is of any very great im- portance, we shall make them the text of some words on the general subject so far, at least, as it concerns us Amer- icans. The two hooks, whose titles are given below, are the most recently published. Mr. Cleavelands is a pleasant little volume, written in a clear, unambitious style, and containing many excellent hints and suggestions; but the illustrations are very poor, and the designs do not appear to be well-considered. Indeed, on looking over the plans and exteriors with care, it must appear surprising that the authors of the book should have fancied themselves proper guides of the public tastefor there is not a single house presented for our examin- ation which has not some ugly feature predominating scarcely one whose proportions are not badwhile the plans are of the most meagre and incon- venient description. Narrow and wind- ing halls, cramped stair-cases, bed- rooms and kitchens opening into par- lors, and without other means of access, the kitchen and parlor opening upon opposite sides of the hall directly you open the front door; all these minor miseries abound in these places, and present themsclves as well in the costly as in the cheaper structures. It is evi- dent that house-building has never been studied as an art by these gentlemen, at least this decision would be the result of an examination of the engravings, but the letter-press which describes theimi, and comments upon them, shows not only feeling and enthusiasm, but judg- ment and honesty of purpose. Perhaps this is the result of triple authorship; we do not pretend to account for the discrepancy; it most certainly exists. Mr. Vauxs book presents us with a similar inconsistency, for he offers us a collection of designs and plans, many. of them worthy a careful examination, but his comments upon them do not please us. Nevertheless, it is very evi- dent that Mr. Vaux fully understands his profession, so far as all technical mutters are concerned; for there has been no book published in America, on the subject of architecture, which is more thorough than this one. rrhe plans are the best part of the book, and The Requirements of American Village Homes considered and sng~ ested; with Designs for such Rouses at modct-ate cost. By H. XV. CLEAv LANo, WiLomAui BAcKUs, amid SAMUEL 11 BA CKUS. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 1857. Villas otid Cotta5 es. A Serses of Designs prepared for Execution in the United States. By CALvERT VAux, Architect. New York: harpers, 1857. 108 House-Building in America. [July, constitute its real value, the exteriors for the most are clumsy and unimagin- ative. His book is a striking contrast to those of his old partner, Mr. Downin~ s, in many things. The plans are better, and there is evidently more familiarity with the conventional rules of the archi- tect, but these advantages cannot bal- ance the charming simplicity of Down- ings style, and the evident sincerity and singleness of his purpose. Mr. Vauxs bookand we wish to do him no injusticeis tdo full of egotism. In strong opposition to this, stands Mr. Downings modesty, which never allowed him to speak an unnecessary word about him- self, and which touched even his satire with good-nature. Indeed, none of these books have impressed us with tl)e belief that Mr. Dovnings volumes are to be immediately superseded, and we shall continue to think that they suf- ficiently fill the field which they pro- fess only partially to occupy, and that, from their point of view, they leave very little to be said on the subject of which they treat. Yet we must still ask ourselves of what use are all these books ? To what end are they written ? For it seems to us, that from Mr. Downing to the lust comer in blue and gold, a fatal error has seized all among us, who have written on this subject of building; and even Mr. Puskin has failed to perceive that his conclusions do not follow from his premises. All these writers, small and great, begin by urging that the art of building has falle a into languishment and decline, that, if not dead, it cannot be said to be alive; that those who build, build carelessly, slavishly and knavishly, and that those for whom they build are cold, indifferent, ignorant, and often knavish, too. These opinions are not expressed in the same way by all writers upon architecture. Mr. Ruskin, indeed, swings himself about in awful fury, arid hurls every sort of pitch arid defilement upon the unhappy gentle- men who venture to sqeak, when he treads upon their cherished corns ; he becomes almost Pythian in his pro- phetic ecstasy of denunciation, when ho speaks of the impiety of building railroads and warehouses instead of cathedrals and cloisters, especially if the warehouses should happen to have a Greek rosette upon them anywhere; arid, indeed, we think his lectures to the people of Edinburgh, about the degeneracy of their bricks and mortar, the most charming piece of burlesque since Galliver; but, generally speak- inc, other writers take a milder and less relentlessly virtuous view, and seem to think, that though matters are come to a pretty bad pass, yet, if the public will only set to work in the right spirit, and adopt their designs, all may yet go ~vell. Mr. Downing is good-natured in this matter, and thinks there is a good time coming; he does not insist upon his own designs as a panacea, but gives us a col- lection gathered from various quarters, and recommends the mixture. The other notes in the gamut are sounded by the rest of the choir, and the general result is a chorus uf depreciation, ending in a grand hallelujah of anticipatory praise; looking forward to the day when the public, driven by an mstlietic fury, shall pour into their offices with unlimited or- ders and the most gratifying surrender of individual feeling and sentiment to the superior taste and knowledge of these artistic gentlemen. This, in seriousness, is the upshot of the whole matter. Mr. Ruskin believes, and all the others whom we have maca- tioned believe, that a love of good build- ing is to be created by an influence from without, rather than by a move- ment from within. Mr. iRuskin, especial- ly, speaks of this age, and the men who live in it, and the work it is doing, as no mann, were he Paul himself, has a right to speak of his fellow-men. Nay, a man with the brain and heart of Paul could not speak so; his greatness of intellect would forbid his so misappre- heading the thought of his century, and the largeness of his heart would prevent such overweening conceit as such whole- sale condemnation of his fellows must imply. But, after this hopeless com- mencement, Mr. Ruskin proceeds every- where to urge, that we should do good and great things; or, if not great, at least good and sincere things, as if that were possible with creatures so debased and material. He does not once see, nor do any of these men, that beautiful building is no longer the law of the time, because the thought and energy of the time spend themselves elsewhere; that it is the product of peaceoutward and inward. Pence in the state, peace in the heart and brain of man. That the work of this age is revolution, and that while freedom is wrestling for her life, and a deathless struggle is impend- House-Building in America. 109 ing, man has no time for toys, be they ever so lovely, and no thought to spare for aught but the battle. It is curious to note in r. IRuskin especially, that after he has shown, elaborately and with excellent skill, the error of those who fancy that ornament is something applied to a building, stuck on, as it were, whereas, it ought to grow out of tbe structure and express the very essential spirit of the building, he should, then, urge men to build in such and such a way, to eschew such and such ornaments, and to delight in certain forms and styles. He does not see that this is applying taste to individ- nals, sticking it upon them; whereas, it ought to be the fruit of their own in- dividuality, and express what they have in them. Of course, no people who need such advice will ever do anything good, and p ople who do not need it ~re hardly subjects for Mr. Huskins denunciation or counsel. We believe that if it were the ap- pointed work of this age, we should find the men of our time building as beautifully and conscientiously as men ever built anywhere; but we do not believe that any amo nt of fine writing, even if it were ten tis es as good as Mr. liuskins best,~or any amount of design- ing, will ever remedy the evil of which these writers complain, or bring back one ray of the glory that has departed from the earth. It may be largely stated that, even as children are always graceful until they learn to dance, so men built beau- tifully until they began to study archi- tecture. Perhaps there never was a lovely house built, whether for God or man, by any professed architect, work- ing s erely for money. Doubtless, there have been correct and cold structures pretty imit~ tions and copiesby the score, but a beautiful, living, inspiring piece of worknever. The art of building began to decay that moment when men sought to bind her with rules, and to reduce her to theory. Hitherto she had been the expres~ion of mans f ith, of his feeling, of his enthnsiasm, of his yearningtouched by the finder of the meddling architect, sh dropped to the earth cold and dead. Every great building that stands upon the earth, before which mens hearts trem- ble, and their souls leap up in thanks- giving, is the child of enthusiasm and rapture. Knowst thou what wove yea wood-V ds nest Of leaves and feathers from her bre at? Or how the fish onthuilt her shell, Paintiu,, with morn, each annual cell? Or how The sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such, and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth prondly wears the Parthenon As the hest gem upon her zone; And morning opes, with haste, her lids To baze upon the Pyramids Oer Englands ahheys hends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; - For, out of thoughts interior sphere, These onders rose to upper air; And nature gladly ave them place, Adopted there into er race, And granted them an eqeal date With Andes and with Ararat. This day will not return to us. The inspiration of man never repeats itself. Yesterday it was Egypt, then Greece, then Rome; to-day it is England, France, America. How vain is it to look backward. How idle to hope, by denunciation or flattery, to move men to our will from the track in which God has set their feet to walk. It would seem as if men mi~ht have learned this lesson, for the least examination would show us that, wherever an individual has given the impulseto any movement, whether great or small, the re~ult has - always been one-sided and unfortunate. All the fanaticism, bigotry, absurdities in fashion, whether of dress, writing, or building, have been the result of strong individual influence swaying the masses of men. On the contrary, all the hero- isms, martyrdoms, revolutions, progress, that the world has been blessed withal, are the flowering of the popular virtue, slowly but thoroughly leavened by the action of great ideas. All the absurdi- ties of the enaissance are individu I characteristics hardened into stone; and think of Englandshe who has York, and Salisbury, and Lincoln falling down before Wren, and London, and Capability Brown! It will be seen, then, that we cannot estimate very highly these hooks on building which et patterns for men to follow, and seek to induce a fashion which has no root in our instincts and relations. \ e not only think they do very little good, but we think they do positive harm. The houses they call upon us to build are, foi~ the most part, remarl able for an immense quc atity of inconceivably ugly, gingerbread work; ugly, because unmeaning and usele~s. Mr. Vaux is something of a sinner in 110 House-Building in America. [July, this respect. He not only puts on his houses too much of this expensive finery, but he seems quite uneasy if a house threatens to have a square foot of blank wall anywhere. Now, people never put these upon their houses of their own accord. There is aLways an architect who pushes them to do it. There is the Swiss carv- ing, you will tell us, and the old English timber houses. Yes, but in the Swiss houses, and, indeed, ia all these in-. stances, the carving is delicate and agreeable in its forms in the first place, and in the next, it is so disposed as not in any way to interfere with the masses of the designer. Every Swiss chalet of importance has a glorious roof, un- broken, simplea treasure house of sun and shadeand the carving of the beams, the tracery of the balconies, cannot draw the eye from the pure re- freshment of these forms. The sense is fed by these natural details, but not disturbed by them. So, too, in the old English country houses and cottages, there is a dignity, the result of sim- plicity in all the forms, which is not diminished by the occurrence of an occasional richly-carved verge-board, or a decorated doorway. But you will never find any frippery there. Those men felt, without knowing it, the beauty of repose. Occasionally one hears a feeble cry: When shall we have an original Ameri- can architecture ? In feeble response to this questioning, comes a book now and then, that hopes it has hinted, to say the least, at the solution of the problem. Yet still we go on, from year to year, with the same blunders and the same awkward attempts at beauty; and, in spite of architects and books of designs, and ornamental wood-work ad libitues, the architectural millennium is as far off as ever. Two or three propositions may be stated for consideration. First, no new idea, or set of ideas, in architecture, has ever originated with a people who are merely colonists from another people in the fullness or decline of their power and splendor. They bring with them the ideas to which they have been ac- customed, which are often seriously modified by new circumstances, but never lose the distinct stamp of their origin. Indeed, the natural impulse would be to change as little as possible, to keep every reminiscence of the past that the present would suffer, and to carry home with them, however far they might wander from the dear re- mnembered spot. Thus, in NewEngland, the oldest and best houses clearly recall the English cottages and mansions; while in New York, one sees Holland in many an old farm-house, which adorns the landscape with its venerable and uncoaquered strength. Second: all good domestic architect- ure has its root in the love of the house as the family home. Wherever this love is the strongest, there we find the best domestic buildings a ad original or, more properly speakingindi- vidual styles. In Germany, in Switzer- land, in England, we must look for all that is most beautiful in house-building; for all that is largest and most worthy the consideration of men. Hence it will be plain that, as the love of the house as the home is not a character- istic of Americans at this day, we can- not expect that there will be a new mode of expression where. there is no- thing to express. In a country where we change houses as we change our clothes, and with the same pleasure at getting into new and fresh ones, it can- not be looked for that we should spend much time upon the embellishment of a dwelling we may any day desert. What we do to our houses, most of us, is merely for show, or to renfier them salable; and perhaps nothing better can be looked for in a new and unsettled country, where the young must leave the nest so soon, for new lands, and new fields of work. We will not find fault with a national tenden- cy which seems inevitable, and which is probably temporary; but we state the fact as it strikes usand its conse- quences. Third: in every country the farm- house is built in an original style. T he Italian, Frenchman, Englishman, German, copies, in his palace or man- sion, the architecture of another coun- try; at one time every rich mans house is a Greek temple, at another, it is an Italian palace, at another, it is a Gothic cathedral cut down. But the house of the Italian peasant, of the Swiss moun- taineer, of the Fiench, German, Eng- lish farmer, is built in a peculiar and unborrowed style. The palace or the church architecture of any country, where it is individual in its character, may be traced directly to its original 1857.1 The Modern Crusoe of the Indian Ocean. ill type, in the farm-house or the barn. AU the detail of Gothic building is merely the rude wood and stone con- struction of the farm- buildings, decorat- edand in the noblest examples, the adherence to the simplicity of the type is most severely observed. We shall find the same fact awaiting us in America, where the only really good houses are the old farm-houses of Dutch and English type, scattered here and there over the land, testifying to the worth of simplicity, and the beauty of common-sense, in the midst of pretense and gingerbread work. We shall find these houses, with a beauty of their own, displaying an adherence to fitness and the sensible, under all circumstances, which is absolutely re- freshing. They are the most delight- ful of homes, and the very paradise of visitors and children. When you go out of the house, there is the barn, twice as large, a sort of supplementary or reserve par~tdise, ostensibly for the dumb animals, but with a direct inten- tion toward the children, little and big. Everything about the house seems made for enjoyment, and for living. The farmer does not know whether all the windows are properly spaced ; he knows they are where they are wanted to look out of, and to let the sun stream in; and the children know that they were built for them to sit in, curled up, eat- ing apples and reading delightful books. The roof, steep and ample, with no twists nor foolish angles, sheds rain and snow, and takes care of itself. The eaves are decorated with a row of pigeons, who catch the light and shade in a manner perfectly surprising, see- lug that no architect had anything to do with them. The verandas or aggies, as the good farmer will call them, are the generous extension of the wonderful roof that shuts down over the household like another heaven. These pi-aggies are always brimful of sun in winter, and cool in summer, while the plain square posts ~iat support them, afford ample excuse to a swarm of white and red roses and Chinese honey-suckles to clamber up to the roof, and swing about free and easi- ly in the air. The sides of the house, if it is of wood, are covered with shin- gles cut roundor, if it is of stone, quantities of little flint pebbles are stuck into the mortar - joints . at least, where you enn see them, for the great curtain of waving American joy, that hides the whole wall from view. Half a dozen such houses we know ofno two ,are absolutely alike, but there is a family resemblance, and they are evidently modeled after one type. They are the nearest approach to an American style of building that we have; but we fear there is as little ehance of a return to the solidity and largeness of our grandfathers architecture as there is of a revival of the sincerity and simplicity of their lives. At all events, whether we are to have a peculiar American way of building or not, de- pends upon the degree in which we love our homes, and upon the determin- ation of each man to build something that may properly be called a house and not a bird-cageone suited to his absolute needbuilt after his own seri- ous thoughtfor the happy and com- fortable spending of a manly life, and for the having of virtuous and healthy children, in the shelter of a happy and never-to-be-forgotten home. THE MODERN CRUSOE OF THE INDIAN OCEAN. ANY one casting his eye over the eastern hemisphere of our planet, will, if his search be diligent, discover, in about the 37th degree of southern latitude, and the 77th of eastern longi- tude, two small specks in the wide waste of waters of the Indian Ocean, as near as may be midway between the Cape of Good Hope and the coast .f New Hol- land. These islands are known to mariners by the names of St. Pauls and Amster- dam, and may be seen, in clear weather, at twenty or thirty miles distance, rear- ing their lofty heads, like twin giants, far above the turbulent billows which surround them. On a bright sunny morning, in the month of December, l8~O, the height of the southern suirt- mer, the Honorable East India Coin-

The Modern Crusoe of the Indian Ocean 111-116

1857.1 The Modern Crusoe of the Indian Ocean. ill type, in the farm-house or the barn. AU the detail of Gothic building is merely the rude wood and stone con- struction of the farm- buildings, decorat- edand in the noblest examples, the adherence to the simplicity of the type is most severely observed. We shall find the same fact awaiting us in America, where the only really good houses are the old farm-houses of Dutch and English type, scattered here and there over the land, testifying to the worth of simplicity, and the beauty of common-sense, in the midst of pretense and gingerbread work. We shall find these houses, with a beauty of their own, displaying an adherence to fitness and the sensible, under all circumstances, which is absolutely re- freshing. They are the most delight- ful of homes, and the very paradise of visitors and children. When you go out of the house, there is the barn, twice as large, a sort of supplementary or reserve par~tdise, ostensibly for the dumb animals, but with a direct inten- tion toward the children, little and big. Everything about the house seems made for enjoyment, and for living. The farmer does not know whether all the windows are properly spaced ; he knows they are where they are wanted to look out of, and to let the sun stream in; and the children know that they were built for them to sit in, curled up, eat- ing apples and reading delightful books. The roof, steep and ample, with no twists nor foolish angles, sheds rain and snow, and takes care of itself. The eaves are decorated with a row of pigeons, who catch the light and shade in a manner perfectly surprising, see- lug that no architect had anything to do with them. The verandas or aggies, as the good farmer will call them, are the generous extension of the wonderful roof that shuts down over the household like another heaven. These pi-aggies are always brimful of sun in winter, and cool in summer, while the plain square posts ~iat support them, afford ample excuse to a swarm of white and red roses and Chinese honey-suckles to clamber up to the roof, and swing about free and easi- ly in the air. The sides of the house, if it is of wood, are covered with shin- gles cut roundor, if it is of stone, quantities of little flint pebbles are stuck into the mortar - joints . at least, where you enn see them, for the great curtain of waving American joy, that hides the whole wall from view. Half a dozen such houses we know ofno two ,are absolutely alike, but there is a family resemblance, and they are evidently modeled after one type. They are the nearest approach to an American style of building that we have; but we fear there is as little ehance of a return to the solidity and largeness of our grandfathers architecture as there is of a revival of the sincerity and simplicity of their lives. At all events, whether we are to have a peculiar American way of building or not, de- pends upon the degree in which we love our homes, and upon the determin- ation of each man to build something that may properly be called a house and not a bird-cageone suited to his absolute needbuilt after his own seri- ous thoughtfor the happy and com- fortable spending of a manly life, and for the having of virtuous and healthy children, in the shelter of a happy and never-to-be-forgotten home. THE MODERN CRUSOE OF THE INDIAN OCEAN. ANY one casting his eye over the eastern hemisphere of our planet, will, if his search be diligent, discover, in about the 37th degree of southern latitude, and the 77th of eastern longi- tude, two small specks in the wide waste of waters of the Indian Ocean, as near as may be midway between the Cape of Good Hope and the coast .f New Hol- land. These islands are known to mariners by the names of St. Pauls and Amster- dam, and may be seen, in clear weather, at twenty or thirty miles distance, rear- ing their lofty heads, like twin giants, far above the turbulent billows which surround them. On a bright sunny morning, in the month of December, l8~O, the height of the southern suirt- mer, the Honorable East India Coin- 112 The Modern Crusoe of the Indian Ocean. pany s ships, the Marchioness of Ely and Lady Campbell, were on their outward passage to China, distant from these islands about two hundred and fifty miles, holding their steady course over the swelling sea, like two trusty friends who had consorted, on a dreary path, for the double purpose of corn- pany and protection. A difference of opinion had existed for some days between the two captains, respecting the longitude, and, it being the occasional practice of seamen to sight these islands to ascertain the correctness of their time, it was agreed between them to spend a day or two in the examination of the geological struc- ture and other curiosities of their seldom- trodden shores. We also promised our- selves a days sporting with the hogs, wild-fowl, seals, etc., with which they are said to abound. The breeze proved variable, and it required several days to reach them. We were no longer in those regions where the trade-winds blow their health- ful breezes, scattering plenty round the earth, their steadiness becoming a pro- verb in the exact reverse of our own. With us, As changeable as the wind is a common expression, not more trite than true; while the native of these smiling climes may compare the con- stancy of his mistress to the wind, and convey a compliment by the com- parison. At length the ships made the land, and dropped their anchors on the east- ern side of the island of St. Pauls, about a mile from the shore, in a sandy substance. having mdcli the appearance of wet gunpowder, this being the only place ships can anchor with any degree of safety. We soon hoisted out the boats, and rowed for the shore. Vlaming, the Dutch navigator, appears to have visit- ed these islands as early as 1697, giving the name of Amsterdam to the north- ernmost; and the southern, and largest, St. Pauls, which latttm extenda in a nortlnvest and southeasterly direction eight or ten miles, and is about five miles in breadth. Opposite to the place where we had anchored the ships, on the east side of the island, we found an catrance to a large circular basin, through which the sea ebbs and flows, and across the throat of this inlet there is a bar. ri~liis lagoon, or basin, is evi- dently the crater of an exhausted vol [July, cane; the bar is composed of large rounded pebbles, and has more the ap- pearance of a work of art than a pro- duction of nature. The narrow opening is about a pistol-shot wide into the basin alluded to, and in which a great many seals were found playing. The tide rushes through this inlet with great velocity; at half-ebb there is great dif- ficulty in getting boats over the bar, which, however, once passed, the basin, or lagoon, is entered immediately, where the water is as smooth as a lake, though the sea be raging without. A lofty bluff headland appears on each side the entrance, and a rock, eighty or ninety feet high, somewhat resembling a sugar- loaf or nine-pin, stands at a small dis- tance from the shore. rJTh0 basin, or rather this crater of an extinct volc~ no, is between two and three miles in cir- cuit, and has thirty fathoms of water in the middle, which depth is sustained until within fifty feet of the shore. All round it, except at the entrance irom the sea, is table-land, rising, in some places, perpendicularly from the basin to an altitude varying from six hundred to seven hundred feet. In rowin~ round we saw smoke rising amid the stones in various places; on landing we found the water close to the basin so hot that we could not bear our hands in it. The temperature of the air was 73o by thermometer, which, on being plunged in the water, ascended to2OO~, and, on repeating the experiment in various l)laces, it rose to a similar eleva- tion. After catching some fish, they were boiled in the springs, which are all close to the sides of the la0oon, or basin, and, in many places, mix with and heat it to a considerable degree; and, as fish abound in vast numbers in all parts of the basin, they are caught very readily; so that, as Vlaming says, you may really throw the fish fastened on the hook out of the cold water into the hot and boil them. Upon mentioning this circumstance to an incredulous but facetious friend, he replied, Nothing is wanted to ren- der the place perfect but melted butter growing in cocoa-nuts hard by. It was on the north side of the inlet where we landed, amongst innumerable seals, some of which we killed for their skins; we then went in search of fresh water, hogs, and vegetablesthese articles being particularly nceeptThlo after a long sea voyageand imme 1857.] The Modern Crusoe of the Indian Ocean. 113 diately commenced the ascent of the hill. Up a considerable part of the way, the path is good; but beyond that we found great difficulty in ascendingthe slippery coarse grass over which we walked causing us to slide downward almost every other step. Upon arriv- ing at the top, we found, instead of tbe interior of the island being table-land, it was broken into valleys. Undulating plains nnd massive lumps of rocks were piled up in various places in strange confusion. Volcanic matter was visible, though not to the extent that might be expected from the evidences exhibited of the fiery origin of the place. Green patches of verdure, intermingled with coarse grass, and aquatic birds wheeling about, uttering their discordant screams, were the only signs of life, both animal and vegetable, that could be seen. It is almost impossible to imagine a soli- tude more impressive. The view, how- ever, looking down towards the lagoon, is beautiful to excess; it has the appear- ance of an immense bowl filled with the clearest water, with a portion of its side broken off, through which fracture the sea appears to have entered and filled it. Within, all is calm and motionless and bright as the most transparent crys- talthe rocks and cliffs being reflected on its smooth, unruffled surface with all the truthfulness of a mirror; while with- out, the sea, dashing over the bar and amongst the rocks at the entrance of the iimlet, foaming, advancing, and re- ceding, offers a marked contrast to the repose which reigns within. The spot is pregnant with melancholy interest, and seemed to mourn the desolating energy of the subterranean fires which, at some not very distant date, had spread such devastation around. As far as the eye could reach, the vision was bounded by the sea, except in the direction of the adjacent island of Amsterdam, whose faint blue outline was visible in the extreme distance. After remaining for a time admiring this singular scene, our party separated in two divisionsone taking for its route a small sandy valley, the other travers- ing a rocky section of the island whose frowning precipices overhung the sea. Fowling-pieces, muskets, and pistols were examined and loaded, and away we went in search of any game which would supply us with fresh provisions. The wild bogsa few being on the vor~. x.8 island at the time of our visit, though not in a thriving conditionwere, it is presumed, tuimed adrift upon the shore by humane individuals, with the kind intention of affording a supply of food to the crews of vessels who, from acci- dent or other causes, might be driven to extremities for want of it. When flaming visited these islands, in 1697, he made no mention of any animal, except seals, existing upon them. After a scrambling march, under a broiling sun for three hours, we arrived at a central position in the island, hav- ing had the good fortune to secure three small pigs on our route, one of which, on being wounded, ran between the legs of a seaman and knocked him down with such violence as nearly to send him over the cliff into the sea below. He was saved by a mere accident. We halted here, and partook of some re- freshments, sheltered from the scorch- ing rays of the sun by two immense rocks, or blocks of stone, which, lean- ing against each other, apparently for support, formed a natural cave or arch- way set up in the wilderness for our convenience and accommodation. As I sat apart at the caverad stone, Like Elijah at Horebs cave alone, And felt as a moth in the mighty Hand That spread the heavens and heaved the land, A still small voice came through the wild, Like a father consoling his fretful child, Which banished bitterness, wrath, and fear, Sayin~, Man is distant, though God is near. We soon dispatched our slight re- past, and renewed our march to the opposite side of the island, our strength recruited by the food we had taken; everybody was full of life and anima- tion; shouts of laughter were constantly pealing forth, as an unsuccessful shot was sent after a scampering pig, squeal- ing at the top of his voice, and hiding in the recesses of the rocks, out of which it was impossible to rout him. We found unless we mortally wounded a hog we never bagged him: he invaria- bly made his escape. Pursuing our career, amidst this kind of sport, we entered a narrow gorge: on either hand the rocks were piled in inextricable confusion; it seemed as though we rather passed through than between them. In h)laces for a dis- tance of a hundred to a hundred and fifty yards they formed a com- plete tunnel, emerging from which 114 The Modern Crusoe of the Indian Ocean. we entered a labyrinth of broken rocks, which had the appearance of being the wreck of a mountain shattered by some terrible convulsion into a thousand fiag- ments, and scattered over the plain. After losing and finding our path at least a do~en times, we issued from this perplexing place into the open country, when one of the strangest-looking be- ings ever seen was the first object that arrested our attention. At a short distance from us we dis- covered a man, a stranger to our party, who at first appeared disposed to avoid us, hut, owing to the nature of his position, that was almost an impossi- bility; the open country was before him it is tine, but the view was unobstructed to the sea, and we were between him and the only hiding-place at handthe narrow, rocky defile through which we had so lately passed, and from which, as we afterwards found, he had retreated on hearing our approach. He appeared to consider any further attempts at concealment unnecessary, aiid gradually approached us. He wqre upon his head a roughly-made seal-skin cap, a jacket made of similar materials covered his body, and a ragged pair of coarse canvas seamans trowsers en- veloped his lower extremities. His face was deeply bronzed by exposure, and a long beard hung down from his, chin upon his chest, which was open to view; a long gun was in his hand The only law of a desert land and held in a position for instant use, should its services be required. Single- handed he would have been a dangerous foe; but, opposed to our numerous party, resistance would be madness, and, no harm being mcai~t or intended on our side, we were at a loss to account for the cau?tious and somewhat menacing attitude he assumed. We thought we had found the Robinson Crusoe of the place, and, all circumstances consid- ered, the suggestion was excusable. The surprise of his great prototype, on dis- covering the impression of the footprint in the sand, could not be greater than ours in finding a human being in a situation so remote from the haunts of men as this solitary placethis speck upon the globe; the dotting of a pin s point upon the map being an exaggera- tion of its size, in comparison with the defined proportions of the rest of the world. [July, Upon asking him whether he belonged to the party of our consort, he replied in the negative, and at the same time expressed his joy on finding we were his countrymen, upon which informa- tion his caution was instantly banished; and, without further reserve, told us he had seen the ships anchor in the road, and the boats approach the shore, and then he fled into the interior of the island, and gave as his reasons for such proceeding, that he had been ill used and robbed by a party who had landed on the island about six months previous to our visit. Confidence rapidly sprung up be- tween us; and, among other things, he gave us the following brief outline of his life, and the cause that led him to adopt this strange and solitary, place for his abode. His name, he said, was George Stew- art, and that he came from a rural dis- trict in North Britain; in early life ho emigrated, with many others, to the Canadas, hoping to better his condition in the New World; after suffering many misfortunes and hardships, his agricul- tural speculation ending in ruin, he joined a hunting expedition in the back- woods of America, in the service of a fur company; from some circumstance which he did not explain, he abandoned this pursuit. Having found his way to a seaport, he then cm-barked in an American whaler, which ship had left him on the island where we found him, as near as he could calculate, about a year; he had lost all reckoning as regards time, neither knowing the day in its monthly or weekly position. English and American whalers some- times leave men upon the island for the purpose of catching seals, and taking their skins and oil, the ship pursuing her voyage to other seas for the grander object of killing whales, and, having completed their cargo (which sometimes occupies a period of one or two years varying duration, according to the suc- cessful nature of their operations), they return home, picking up on their route the men they have left at different places sealing. It happens sometimes that the ship is lost, and humanity shudders at the fate of the hapless individuals thus left to their solitary fate. We dwelt upon the chance of his either belun forgotten, or that his ship might be lost, and urged 1857.] The Modern Crusoe of the Indian Ocean. 115 him to take his passage in ours, which he instantly declined. Taking a lively interest in his behalf, we expressed our surprise at his being able to sustain such a solitary existence; he acknowl- edged it was very irksome at first, but that was occasioned by his companion, with whom he had repeated quarrels; but since he had left him for the neigh- boring island (which he thought was nine months since), he had been much happier. As for solitude, he was used to it, having spent mouths quite alone in the wilds of America when engaged on his fur-hunting expeditions, and that he was then perfectly contented. Of course our astonishment was ex- cited on finding in such a place, with every circumstance to bind two lonely men together, if not for the sake of society, at least for protection, that they should separate: it appeared, how- ever, that his companion was of a quar- relsome disposition, avaricious, and overbearing; and at night, said Stew- art, I never closed my eyes in safety, for fear of being murdered by him, knowing that all the profits accruing from their mutual labors in sealing would belong to the survivor, and there would be no evidence to prove that I had not died a natural death. Under these circumstances, existence became insupportable; and one morn- ing, after a quarrel, ending in a desper- ate conflict, in which they seriously wounded each other, they agreed to separate, and casting lots which should depart, and Stewart winning the choice, remained on St. Pauls; his companion, taking the largest of the two boats, left them by their ship, sailed for the neigh- boring island of Amsterdam, and from that hour to the time of our meeting Stewart, they had never seen nor heard of each other. - During our conversation with him, among other things he mentioned, while looking for seals, he had seen ships at various times pass the island; but, with the exception of the one which robbed him, none had sent a boat on shore; and the remembrance of his former treatment induced him to endeavor to avoid a meeting with us. But, said the honest-hearted fellow, it was wrong to suppose all men were like the cow- ards who ill-treated and robbed a single man in my situation. Bah ! said he, with a strong Scotch accent, they were Portuguese. One day, while hunting seals in a re- mote part of the island, he found upon a flat shelving rock, near the sea beach, a human skeleton, which he supposed was the remains of some former inhabit- ant of the place, who, like himself, had been left for the purpose of taking skins, and, being overtaken by sickness, had crawled to the spot where his bones were found, in the hope of seeing a ship pass by, and, waiting there in vain, had died in a manner the heart sickens to dwell upon. This circumstance caused him great uneasiness for some time; he, however, performed the last offices upon his remains, and buried them near the spot where they were found. Some time after the above melan- choly affair, while repairipg his boat, he was alarmed by a rumbling noise ~lroceeding from the circular basin, which was followed by a smart shock of an earthquake. This he stated was the only occurrence of the kind that had happened during his residence there. He had been able to exist very well, the lagoon supplying him with abun- dance of fish, and occasionally he killed a hog, but was indifferently supplied with vegetables. The biscuit left him by his ship was nearly expended, which he felt as an evil; but we relieved his anxiety by promising to leave him a good store for his future wants, to- gether with some flour, ammunition, and fishing-lines and hooks. Our excursion being brought to a close, our newly-found friend conducted us to his hut, which was upon the mar- gin of the lagoon, in a recess formed by nature in the rock: the entrapce he had narrowed with stones, filling the interstices with sand and earth com- bined, leaving a small doorway, which was curtained with a piece of canvas. It contained a seamans chest, a large barrel which held the skins he had dried, and in other parts, skins were undergoing the process necessary for their preservation. A seamans ham- mock and bedding, with a gun, and a few other articles, completed the furni- ture of his cabin. It surprised our party tQ find his dwelling so near the place where we landed, and that we should have passed it unobserved; but the fact can be ac- counted for in no other way than oar being overwhelmed with the novelties - of the place, and unable to bestow any 116 Lord Broug1ia~n. time upon objects which appeared in- significant. As night was fast approaching, we felt anxious to return to our vessel, Stewart accompanying us in his boat, first extracting a promise not to take him to sea. On board he was the object of con- siderable curiosity, and amused those who had not been on shore, with a re- cital of his monetonous existence; and when urged again to leave his dreary abode, and sail with us, he stoutly de [July, dined, having a firm reliance in the word of the captaia of his ship, who, he was confident, would call for him when he had completed his cargo. The breeze freshening, we became impatient to put to sea, and, having fulfilled our promise to Stewart ia sup- plying his deficiencies, we got under way; and for some time all eyes were fixed upon his receding figure in his boat, when the extreme distance at last shut him and his solitary abode forever from our view. LORD BROUGHAM. j F thereader of our present age could ansported back into the living England of some thirty years ago, one of the names that he would oftenest hear, and hear always in connection with some earnest intellectual work, would be that of Henry Brougham. Even then he was distinguishe din many, almost contradictory, ways. His knowledge was held to be but little short of encyclop~dian; he had won for himself a high reputation in mathemat- ical science; his writings were both numerous and powerful; the senate and the bar were daily ringing with his pas- sionate eloquence; and he had become a prominent and a popular advocate of some of the very grandest causes which contribute to the progress of mankind. And, beyond all this, he had given abundant proof of an able, restless, and aspiring nature, conscious of its own capacities, and using them on all fit occasions with a ready and impetuous dariagness which augured well for a triumphant issue of his aims. One of the earliest glimpses that we get of him is in St. David street, Edin- burgh, runnin~ on the pavement with Francis homer, before either of the little playfellows had fairly got through his second year. His education was began betimes, at the High School, where Mr. Luke Fraser and Dr. Adam were in turn his masters. The anec- dote which Lord Cockbura tells of Broughams dispute with Mr. Fraser on a point of Latinity, his punishment, his renewal of the dispute the next day under the ingis of a heap of authorities which compelled the kind-hearted pre ceptor to own himself in the wrong, and his subsequent fame as the fellow who had beat the master, is so curiously characteristic of the Henry Brougham of maturer years, that one regrets to be obliged to transfer the honor of the achievement to some other and un- known person. A more certain fact is, that he was distinguished as a quick and eager scholar, and proceeded to the university at the age of sixteen. His attention, in the first instance, was given chiefly to physical and mathe- matical science; and so considerable was his progress, that papers of his, on subjects belonging to these departments of knowledge, were soon afterwards published in the Transactions of the Royal Society, and were noticed in a highly flattering manner in some of the circles most competent to judge fairly of their value. Indicative as these con- tributions were of the early ripeness of the youths intellect, and probably of some special faculty for the pursuits which they referred to, one cannot but rejoice that his studies swept betimes over a far wider sphere. In his twen- tieth yearon the 21st of November, 1797he was admitted, with Francis homer again for a companion, into that Speculative Society in which so many of the ablest of his Scottish contein- poraries prepared themselves for the realities of public life. Three years afterwardshaving, in the mean time, traveled awhile on the Continenthe became a member of the Society of Advocates, of Edinburgh. Up to this point in his career, or even a little beyond it, it is probable

Lord Brougham 116-123

116 Lord Broug1ia~n. time upon objects which appeared in- significant. As night was fast approaching, we felt anxious to return to our vessel, Stewart accompanying us in his boat, first extracting a promise not to take him to sea. On board he was the object of con- siderable curiosity, and amused those who had not been on shore, with a re- cital of his monetonous existence; and when urged again to leave his dreary abode, and sail with us, he stoutly de [July, dined, having a firm reliance in the word of the captaia of his ship, who, he was confident, would call for him when he had completed his cargo. The breeze freshening, we became impatient to put to sea, and, having fulfilled our promise to Stewart ia sup- plying his deficiencies, we got under way; and for some time all eyes were fixed upon his receding figure in his boat, when the extreme distance at last shut him and his solitary abode forever from our view. LORD BROUGHAM. j F thereader of our present age could ansported back into the living England of some thirty years ago, one of the names that he would oftenest hear, and hear always in connection with some earnest intellectual work, would be that of Henry Brougham. Even then he was distinguishe din many, almost contradictory, ways. His knowledge was held to be but little short of encyclop~dian; he had won for himself a high reputation in mathemat- ical science; his writings were both numerous and powerful; the senate and the bar were daily ringing with his pas- sionate eloquence; and he had become a prominent and a popular advocate of some of the very grandest causes which contribute to the progress of mankind. And, beyond all this, he had given abundant proof of an able, restless, and aspiring nature, conscious of its own capacities, and using them on all fit occasions with a ready and impetuous dariagness which augured well for a triumphant issue of his aims. One of the earliest glimpses that we get of him is in St. David street, Edin- burgh, runnin~ on the pavement with Francis homer, before either of the little playfellows had fairly got through his second year. His education was began betimes, at the High School, where Mr. Luke Fraser and Dr. Adam were in turn his masters. The anec- dote which Lord Cockbura tells of Broughams dispute with Mr. Fraser on a point of Latinity, his punishment, his renewal of the dispute the next day under the ingis of a heap of authorities which compelled the kind-hearted pre ceptor to own himself in the wrong, and his subsequent fame as the fellow who had beat the master, is so curiously characteristic of the Henry Brougham of maturer years, that one regrets to be obliged to transfer the honor of the achievement to some other and un- known person. A more certain fact is, that he was distinguished as a quick and eager scholar, and proceeded to the university at the age of sixteen. His attention, in the first instance, was given chiefly to physical and mathe- matical science; and so considerable was his progress, that papers of his, on subjects belonging to these departments of knowledge, were soon afterwards published in the Transactions of the Royal Society, and were noticed in a highly flattering manner in some of the circles most competent to judge fairly of their value. Indicative as these con- tributions were of the early ripeness of the youths intellect, and probably of some special faculty for the pursuits which they referred to, one cannot but rejoice that his studies swept betimes over a far wider sphere. In his twen- tieth yearon the 21st of November, 1797he was admitted, with Francis homer again for a companion, into that Speculative Society in which so many of the ablest of his Scottish contein- poraries prepared themselves for the realities of public life. Three years afterwardshaving, in the mean time, traveled awhile on the Continenthe became a member of the Society of Advocates, of Edinburgh. Up to this point in his career, or even a little beyond it, it is probable 1857.] Lord Brougham. 117 that Brougham had hardly much sur- passed in visible performances many of the very gifted young men who were his associates at the Scottish bar. But he had been silently building up the foundations of that surprising versatility which has been ever since one of the most marked of all his mental charac- teristics. When the Edinburgh Re- view began, with an audacity at least as great as its ability and knowledge, to fulmine over the literary world, Brougham was a distinguished member of the brilliant band of its contributors; but he had, at the same time, already completed a bargain with the publisher for his Inquiry into the Colonial Policy of the European Powersan extensive work, marked in an equal measure by extent of information, vigor of talent, and maturity and boldness of political views. That so good a book should have been written by so young a man, was extraordinary enough; but that the same individual should have also found time, within so short an antecedent period, to make his important com- munications to the Royal Society, to become a prominent debater in the Speculative, to prepare himself for his admission to the bar, to get through his foreign travel, and to write brilliant contributions to the Edinburgh Re- view, was such a manifestation of in- tellectual activity and power as would not easily be paralleled in recent times. And there was one - amongst his inti- mates by whom the strength and weak- ness of his singular nature was even then correctly and completely known. In a letter, written a few mouths after their joint admission to the Speculative Society, Homer says: Had you any conversation with Broagh. am? He is an uncommon genius, of a corn- posite order, if you allow me to use the expression: he unites the greatest ardor for general information in every branch of knowl- edge, and, what is more remarkable, activity in the business, and interest in the pleasures of the world, with all the powers of a mathe- matical intellect. And again, four years later, on the eve of the publication of his friends work on Colonial Policy, the same deep and calm observer writes: Should an active scene be opened to Brougham, I shall tremble with anxiety for some time, though it is what I very ardently wish: his information on political subjects, especially in some departments, is now im- mense; his talents are eqnal to the most effective use and display of that knowledge. Bat his ardor is so urgent, that I should be afraid of his being deficient in prudence. That he would ultimately become a leading and predominant mind, I cannot doubt; but he might attempt to fix himself in that place too soOnbefore he had gone through what I presume is a necessary routine of subordina- tion. He was, at any rate, not much dis- posed to continue long in subordination at Edinburgh. In that city of stron0 political partisanship, Whiggism, in the early years of the present century, was far from being the most profitable side for a young advocate to enlist on; and Brougham, animated by the conscio us- ness of power, and the ambition which that consciousness engendered, may have been not prevented by his good professional success from seeking for a wider and a freer field for his exertions. Instigated by this consideration, and hastened, probably, in his determination by the result of his appearance before the House of Lords as one of the junior counsel for Lady Essex Ker in the Rox- burghe peerage case, in his twenty- ninth or thirtieth year, he settled in London, where, after a short time, he was called to the bar at Lincolns Inn, and began to practice as a barrister in the Court of Kings Bench. This was in 1808, and from this date until that of his elevation to the wool- sack in 1839, Mr. Brougham came by degrees to be engaged in what was lit- erally an unparalleled amount of labor. In his capacities of statesman, advo- cate, and author, he was soon doing the work of three industrious men. Mar- velous stories have been told of his dispatch of business, indubitable myths originating in a reality of performance surprising enough to stand in no need of exaggeration. Business, indeed, flowed in upon him in a deep and full tide. In the Court of Kings Bench, and on the Northern Circuit, he quickly became, especially in political cases, a favorite advocate; and his distinction at the bar recommended him at once to an ample participation in the toils, and strife, and triumphs of the senate. In the midst of these abundant occupations he still found time for a multitude of publications of which he is the known, acknowledged author, as well as, proba- bly, for no - inconsiderable numberas there is good reason for surmising which may be hereafter traced to his prolific pen. In order to understand 118 Lord Brougizarn. the extent of his activity daring this portion of his indefatigable career, let us endeavor to catch a glimpse of some of his greater labors in each of these departments of exertion. One of the earliest of his memorable efforts as an advocate, occurred within two years of his admission to the English bar. The Berlin decrees, by which Napoleon sought to cramp the commerce of England, had provoked the government of that day to a retali- atory absurdity in the shape of orders in Council, which, by a subsequent modification, had been made oppress- ively severe. Mr. Brougham, as the representative of a large and influential portion of the mercantile community, was employed to plead against the co- ercion and continuance of these or- ders before the House of Lords; and his argument, which occupied two days in its delivery, though ineffectual as to its specific aim, manifested so rare a combination of knowledge, boldness, ingenuity, and eloquence, that the ad- vocate himself was at once welcomed as a pillar of strength on the popular side in the fierce party warfare of the time. A seat in the House of Com- mons was one of the immediate conse- quences of this masterly discourse, but not the only or the most important one. It opened the way to a very considera- ble extension of his professional busi- ness; not merely by making known the warmth and vigor of his powers and the wide extent of his resources, but by making known also the liberality of his own political views, and the likelihood that he would, therefore, put forth his strength with a hearty good- will in defense of those who had, by too free an advocacy of similar convictions, subjected themselves to the inquisition of a somewhat rigorous law. It was not long before cases of this kind oc- curred, in which he was actually called to champion the oppressed. In the volume of his Social and Political Speeches, just published by Messrs. Griffin & Co., there are the reports of two speeches which were delivered in the following year, in defense of per- sons against whom prosecutions on a charge of libel had been instituted by the state. On both of these occasions, Mr. Broughams clients were proceeded against for the publication of the same articlean article on Military Flog- ging, written by Mr. John Scott~ who [July, afterwards conducted the Champion, and the London Magazine, and who was killed in a duel consequent upon a stern, unpalatable reprehension of the personalities of Blackwoods Maga- zine ;and it is a curious instance of the uncertainty of law, that whilst John and Leigh Hunt were acquitted by a jury at Westminster, Drakard was con- victed at Lincoln and sentenced by the Court of Kings Bench to imprison- ment for eighteen months. But the defense on both occasions was clear, and vigorous, and eloquent; doing as much justice to the principle of free discussion, which these prosecutions aimed at, as to the individual defend- ants in the two causes. It was the very natural result of a frequent advo- cacy of this kind to make Mr. Brough- am eminently popular both as a barris- ter and a politician. How great his business and his popularity had grown, may be in some degree inferred from the well-remembered delight of the peo- ple when it became known to them that he had engaged in the onerous duties of Attorney-General to the Queen. He had been for many years her law- adviser, and in that capacity had, in conjunction with Mr. Whitbread, strong- ly remonstrated against her perilous residence abroad; and when the fruits of her unfortunate resolution appeared in their mature bitterness in the Bill of Pains and Penalties, he entered with his whole heart and soul into her de- fense. But to him, as to the great mass of the people of England at that time, the question at issue was not one that might be compressed within the narrow limits of an inquiry into the guilt or innocence of his ili~fated client. It expanded it- self into the broader and the higher problemthe problem infinitely more momentous, both in its moral and po- litical bearingof the absoluteness of the kings power to degrade and do away with a consort whom he had out- raged by his own uniform career of coarse, unprincipled sensuality; whom he had from the beginning of their union slighted, hated, and by niennest arts oppressed; and whom he sought at last to cast down from her queenly rank, and ruin outright; though, had the foulest perjuries that English gold had bought against her been believed, she would still have seemed, even to human eyes, immeasurably less stained .S57.] Lord Brougham. 119 and scarred by guilt than her persecu- tor, in the revolting grossness of his life, had ever coudescended to appear. From first to last, during the long continuance of proceedings in the House of Lords, Mr. Broughams energies were poured forth unsparingly in this important case. It is the occasion which his biographer will have to dwell on, as revealing within definite limits all his rare and multiplied endowments all his defiant and indomitable daring his lightning-like conceptionhis multifarious knowledgehis compre- hensive grasp of details, and his skill- ful marshaling of them in production of some climax startling from magnifi- cence of power,his lynx-eyed insight into falsehood and prevarication under all their wide variety of cleverly-con- trived disguiseshis fierce, intolerable sarcasmand his vehement and im- passioned eloquence, touched some- times with an unwonted pathos, and raised sometimes into an unwonted solemnity of tone, which were inspired by the greatness of the cause, and were not unworthy of it. The chaste and noble impressiveness of the peroration of his speech in defense was a new ex- cellence in his marvelous oratory. One brief emphatic passage in it, which Lord Eldon reprehended as an intimni- dation, was in these memorable words: My Lords, I pray you to pause. I do earnestly beseech you to take heed! You are standing upon the brink of a precipice then beware! It will go forth your judg- ment, if sentence shall go forth against the Queen. But it will be the only judgment you ever pronounced which, instead of reaching its object, will return and bound back upon those who give it. Save the country, roy Lords, from the borrors of this catastrophesave yourselves from this peril rescue that country, of which you are the ornaments, but in which you can flourish no longer, when severed from the people, than the blossom when cut off from the roots and the stein of the tree. Owing to the matchless efforts of the Queens defenders, the Bill of Pains and Penalties met with so discouraging a fortune in the House of Lords, that it was, after the third reading, finally withdrawn. rho news of that event was welcomed with a jubilant delight throughout the land. In the homes of the great masses of the people, even in thc lanes and courts and alleys where the very poorest of them lived, the windows gleamed with light, and bon- fires blazed in the public places, as never windows gleamed or bonfires blazed for any victory before; for this was felt to he a victory which the people might rejoice in heartily, with- out misgiving or alloy; a victory over the strong hand of selfish and unscru- pulous oppression: and he who had been foremost in the arduous strife be- came the idol of the people, and was hailed as the peoples friend. But the fiery indignation which Mr. Brougham had often given utterance to during the course of these proceedings against the Queen, did not die away at their termina- tion, nor even on the mournful death of his unhappy client. From time to time, ever since, the pent emotion has burst forth, rapid, fierce and burning, as in its first consuming outbreak. A well- remembered example of the abiding, unabated strength of this feeling oc- curred in the defense of Ambrose Williams, in a trial for libel on the Durham clergy. rrho defendant had, in the Durham Chronicle, published some severe censures on the conduct of the clergy, in not having the bells of their churches tolled on the occa- sion of her Majestys death ; and Mr. Brougham, roused to pitiless resent- ment by the insult which had provoked his clients strictures, poured forth a bitter strenta of mingled sarcasm, irony, and stern vituperation on the complain- ants, which must have made them in the depth of their abasement look back, almost lovingly, on the milder libel of which the evil spirit had come back to them in the strength of seven even more wicked than himself. Amongst the multitude of Mr. Broughamns speeches at the bar, we question whether any other equaled this in the one quality of concentrated scorn: some were un- doubtedly more richly graced with knowledge, some more soundly nrgu- mentative, some wittier, and some more classically eloquent; but in that pecu- liar power in which the orator surpassed the whole of his contemporariesthe power of a contemptuous, withering, merciless invective it is doubtful whether this defense of Ambrose Wil- hams is not, even now, to be regarded as his best oration at the bar. It has been a hundred times re- marked, how seldom a distinguished speaker in the courts is equally suc- cessful in the House of Commons. Mr. Broughams first efforts in that new arena are said to have made it likely 120 Lord Broughain. [July, that his name would have to be inscribed in the catalogue of those to whom this disappointment had occurred. But there was a stubborn invincibleness in his nature, a power to do whatever he determined on, that soon bore him up above all fear of permanent ft~ilure. Before he had been many months a member of the House, he became so well accustomed to it as to wield the rare weapons of his oratory in that great assembly with just as much ease, and with just as assured a mastery, as he was wont to do elsewhere. In little more than two years it was thought not imprudent for him to contest a Liverpool election against Canning, and his defeat on that occasion ex- cluded him from Parliament for four years. But, in 1816, he again obtained a scat there, which he continued to holdas representative, successively, for Winchelsen, for Knaresborough, and for Yorkshireuntil his elevation, in 1830, to the House of Lords. In the House, it was soon felt that a mas- ter-spirit was again amongst theman orator of natures fashioning, yet well sustained by all the helps of arta worthy successor of the great parlia- mentary chiefs of a generation just passed away. Compared with the mightiest of that by-gone race, though he might fall short of the gorgeous imagination and the philosophic depth of Burke, or of the sonorous and sus- tained strength of Pitt, or of the vehe- mence, and simplicity, and genuine nobleness of Fox, or of the wit, and polish, and dramatic point of Sheridan, he had p~xvers of his own, quite as for- midable, at least, as any of these in debateas much dreaded by opponents, and as much confided in by friends. For, to the consideration of almost every subject that could come before the council of a great nation, he brought an ample and exact fund of knowledge, a comprehensive acquaintance with all the principles of sound and scientific government, and a very competent familiarity with all the details of our home, foreign, and colonial affairs, which a retentive memory enabled him to bring to bear at any moment in de- bate, which he had the skillin spite of an unstudied styleto set before his hearers clearly, fully, and impressively; and which, upon occasion, he would en- force with an eloquence in which the reason and the feelings were alike addressed, or uphold against attack with a surpassing storm of sarcasm, scorn, and sneers, and fierce and pas- sionate invective, against which, no member of the House, but Canning, could, with any hope of victory, con- tend. With this influence in the House, there was no lack of sustenance to his popularity out of doors. Of every liberal measure, of every measure tend- ing to relieve, redress, refine, and raise the people, he was the strong and staunch supporter. On all those mo- mentous themes, in which the problem is to reconcile the widest benefits of civil government with the smallest possible encroachment upon individual rights, his exertions were unsparing on the popular side. On seine of these his labors and endeavors have, to such an extent, identified him with the cause, that the memories of the measure and the man must go down to posterity to gether. Andif we have not miscon- ceived the character which is revealed beneath the tumult and the turmoil of his lifeif the high ambition of a bene- factor to his fellow-countrymen, and to the world, has been in truth amongst the foremost of the dispositions which inspired and sustained himhe would himself wish to be remembered in no nobler association than that of the faithful and triumphant leader in the great battles for the abolition of colonial slavery; the reform of law; and the diffusion of knowledge, the helpmate and chief servant of Christianity in the work of civilization, into the under- standings and the hearts of all the popu- lation of the land. In the t~venty-two years which inter- vened between his call to the English bar and his accession to the woolsack, it would have been excusable enough if Mr. Brougham had written nothing. In the harass of his extensive business in the courts, or in the excitement of his labors in the House of Commons, an ordinary man would have found quite task enough for body and for mind, and the anxieties, and toil, and efforts of the two occupations, actively pursued, might have satisfied the most intemperate avidity for work. But Mr. Brougham found time and vigor for a third. Ilazhitt saystruly, indeed, though not in an obvious sensethe more we do, the more we can do; the busier we are, the more leisure we have: and Mr. Brough- ams accumulated labors - t the time we 1857.] Lord Drougliam. 121 are speaking of, exemplified the theo- retic truth. In the production of ad- dresses, pamphlets, and revised and published speeches, and in the great body of his contributions to the Edin- burgh Review, there was an iatellectual harvest which might have been held not scanty in amount even for a man of letters by profession ; and yet these were but the superabundance which his indefatigable spirit yielded. The larger portion of these writings have, unques- tionably, a political cast and character about them, and were probably as their manner indicateswritten hastily and carelessly; yet in all their indiffer- ence to elegance, abounding in vitality and strength, as auxiliaries in the great public causes pending at the tune. Sometimes, however, we meet with a genial paper, so eloquent of the charm of early, unforgotten studies, and old classical memories and joys, as to set us pondering on the great things the writer might have accom- plished if, in his young days, he had wedded himself to literature instead of statesmanship or law. Of this kind is the Inaugural Discourse on his installa- tion as Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow. Opposed, as a candidate, by Sir Walter Scott, and winning the election only by the casting vote of Mackintosh, Mr. Broughams address is said to have been composed amidst the complicated business and bustle of the northern circuit. But, wherever it was written, the address is redolent of fond remembrance of the pure and high de- lights belonging to the scholars life, rich in eloquent incentives to exertion, nobly stored with dissertation on the grace, and power, and beauty of the Ian- gua~e of old Greece, commendatory but not enough soof the great Inns- ters of our own glorious tongue, ~vise and earnest in the counsels it enforces, and, above all, bold in the declaration of a great philosophic truth, which raised a host of hoodwinked volunteers against him; and it is, moreover, distinguished by a better and exacter style than was habitual to the writer in the works re- ferable to that laborious time. Bearing this discourse in mind, as a model, we might, without injustice, apply to some few of his other writings of the same period his own words: Had he studied correctness equally, the effect would have been heightened, and a far more excellent thing would have been offered to our deliberate admiration, after its appeal to the feelings had been success- fully made. On the accession of the Whigs to office in 1830, Mr. Brougham, much to the surprise of Parliament and the na- tion, became their Lord Chancellor. On him, and on Earl Grey, the burden of the battle rested in carrying the memor~ able Bill for Parliamentary Reform against the deeply-rooted opposition of the Upper House. But Lord Brou 0h am, with his long experience in the Commons and the courts of law, was just the man that an emergency so startling needed. Like Massena, he was most himself when difficulties thronged most against him. Those who remem- ber the perilous excitement of that timewhen the peoples voice was heard from every quarter of the land in stern and deep tones demanding that the proffered measure of relief should be no longer kept from them, and the press, in all its multitudinous chan- nels, from the hawkers penny sheet to the almost omnipotent Times, was clamoring and thundering for the pass- ing of the Bill, and both press and peo- ple were looking angrily towards the House of Lords as the one obstruction to the great redress they claimedwill remember how, in the nightly conflicts and commotions which disturbed the immemorial dignity of their Lordships deliberations, the strangest of all inno- vations was the fierce and passionate rhetoric, the ever-ready artillery of in- vective, menace, sarcasm, and denuncia- tiomi of their new colleague in council, Henry, Lord Brougliama. And it will be remembered also, how, when every argument in favor of the Bill had been insisted on, till frequent use had made it threadbare, his Lordship, on the second reading, delivered an oration full of wit, and novelty, and eloquence, and argumentative impressiveness, which delighted, by its force and beau- ty, those who most disliked and diend- ed its effect, and which stands to this day in the foremost rank in merit, if not itself the very first in merit, of all the countless speeches he has made. On the passing of this much-contested measure, in the summer of the next year, the Whig ministry were at liberty to proceed to other and extensive amendments of domestic and colonial law. In all these legislative labors the Chancellor was an able, energetic, and 122 Lord Brougham. [July, untiring sharer. In the case of some of them, such as the abolition of colonial slavery, the amendment of the crhninal law, and the iml)rovement of the de- structive and demoralizing poor-laws, both wisdom and humanity demanded the reform. His speeches upon these subjects, evea if they remained alone, instead of being merely instances of l~is continuous and consistent effort to make his influence beneficial to the na tion, would amply prove him to have been earnest, outspoken, and enlight- ened, in performance of the legislative duties of his brief official life. But he had, at the same time, judicial duties to perform; and it is in reference to his competency to these that detraction has been busiest against his fame. We think it quite probable that he was less deeply learned in the technicalities and prece- dents of law than many of his prede- cessors had been, but he was a master of its principles, and he made up by prodigious toil and care for any de- ficiencies. He gave, moreover, more hours in the day, and more days, than had been usual to the court, and by this means, and by his unequaled quick- ness and activity of mind together, he left not a single appeal unheard, nor one letter unanswered. In dispensing the extensive patrona~e of his office, he had the rare merit of doing nothing that the malignancy of spite could found a censure or a cavil on, whilst he left, on quitting power, more than one glad and grateful home, made happy by his un- expected kindness. Lord Brougham remained in office little more than four years. His sub- sequent position in the Upper House has been that of an independent peer. During that long portion of the inter- veiling time in which his activity in Parliament was nnabated, there was sometimes a purpose to be served by representing him as one who had aban- doned and opposed his former views, and had been, in fact, without any obvi- ous or sufficient motive, guilty of that very tergiversation with which he charg- ed Canning, in the memorable scene between them during the debate on Catholic Emancipation, in 1823. But when we look at the particulars on which it is attempted to substantiate this sweeping charge, they are found to be contemptibly inadequate to any such design; the facts arrayed against him showiiig, not that he has proved a traitor to any of the great principles of liberty and progress, or to any momentous policy, that he had ever advocated ear- nestly in earlier years, but that lie has not chosen to be bound by the shibbo- leth of any of the parties in the state. His opposition to the Whig ministry under Lord Melbourne, in which the charge originated, began reluctantly and, as he himself proclaimed, at the conclusion of a masterly and eloquent defense, wrung from him by an imputation of the kind within the House Only began, as every man in the country knew, and as those slanderous assailants alone willfully forgot, when the government took a new line against reform of Parliament, and ether reforms; and whcn on that, and on their extravagant civil list, and their Canada Bills, and their slave-question, they had compelled him to oppose them, if he did not mean to abandon all his most sacred and most con- stantly avowed principles and feelings upon the whole policy of the stale. These thimigs were quite notoriousthey were facts, aiid even had dales, which at once dispelled the whole charges made hy willful fabrications out of doors, and at length, with an indiscre- tion to which great wits are too subject, brought forward by a cabinet miiiister in that House. Since his emancipation from the toils of office, in 1834, his lordship has en- gn~ed in a career of literature which, at any previous time, must have been, even tq l)is unexampled industry, impractie- able. It is true that the greater por- tion of his Discourse of Natural rrhe elegy was written whilst lie held the Great Seal, but, amidst the cares that pressed upon him, it was impossible to finish the work. The revision and conclusion of this philosophical discourse was one of the first fruits of subsequent leisure. The edition of Paleys treatise on the same subject, with scientific notes and illustrations, in the prepara- tion of which Sir Charles Boll was his colleague, and the Dialogues on In- stinet, were the next ripe produce of his lordships versatile ability. To these there has succeeded a considerable series of Lives of Philosophers, Men of Letters, aiid Statesman of the time of George the Thirda collection of biographies, full of interesting informa- tion, and richly interspersed with criti- cisms which, themselves, occasionally need a passing word of comment. rr0 the consideration of some of these pro- ductions we would gladly turn had we the space. 1857.] Female Gooperage. 123 In a few months his lordship will have entered on his eightieth year. Very recently he has gone back to in- vestigations in physical science like those by which his celebrity in youth was won. As the memories of those studious days in the university of his native land, and of the intervening years of struggle and success upon the busiest of the worlds stages, are re- called to him in his sweet southera home, it would be excusable, though his pulse should bent quicklier, and his cheek flush with pride, as he dwells on the remembrance of the labors he has gone through, the good he has accom- plished, and the high example he has given to the world. In such a retro- spect there shonld be a noble and suffi- cient consolation for the sorrows that have fallen to his lot. In advanced age, the bereavements of affection are less keenly deplored, as we look forward to a more quickly forthcoming reunion with the departed objccts of our care and love ; and all the lesser cares and troubles of his long life, all the coldness and injustice, and calumnious misrepre- sentation that have occurred to him in his public course, how abundantly have they been counterbalanced by the inde- fatigable use which it has been per- mitted to him to make of his great natural endowments, either by himself originating, or by ably seconding others, in the protection given to the weak against the strong, in the freedom won for our colonial slaves, in the ameliora- tion of our laws, and in the glorious boon of knowledge, the enlightener to myriads of our fellow-men, who, but for his ceaseless, splendid services, would have been doomed to linger on in hopeless intcllectual darkness. FEMALE CO OPEflAGE. A NEW fashion always proves to be I~ old. Trades change; and a female dress-maker is only a cooper working in crinoline. A portrait of a lady is now no more exhibited in a frame than the lady herself. There is this differ- ence: in the picture the frame is visible; in the original it is hidden. In England, at the present moment, ladies wear hoops in full dress at balls and dinners upon state occasions; at which times, also, men wear dress-coats and white waistcoats, if they like white waistcoats or have them. In this country, a lady wears hoops at breakfast, in the street, calling, and shopping. It is not ascertained that she is ever un- hooped. A laud& ble curiosity inquires, Does the American lady sleep in hoops ? There is reason, however, even in the extravagance of fashion: that is to say, every fashion has some good idea. Some attempt to please; some aim at beau- ty, grace, ease, propriety, or conveni- ence. We do not say how often that effort is successful, or how frequently a fashion is beautiful or graceful. One thin~ only is sure: that to be entirely out of the fashion is to be neither beautiful nor graceful. It is in vain to talk Iroquois in Greece. The finest poetry, the sublimest truth, are equally lost. Fashion, in dress, is the solvent that reconciles and adapts. To be out of fashion, is to be out of tune and time. Now we shall let our betters speak of these mysteries. We said a new fashion is always old. There is no- thin a new in hoops, nn~ we shall soon have patches. In 1715, petticoats had swollen to that degree, that a writer says: If the men, also, adopted the old fashion of trunk-hose, a man and his wife would fill a whole pew in church. In a letter to the Spectator, we find the following account of hoops: Since your withdrawing from this place, the fair sex are run into great extravagancics. Their petticoats which began to swell and heave before you left us, are now blown up into a most enormous concave, and rise evcry day more and more. In short, sir, since our women know themselves to be out of the eye of the Spectator, they will be kept within no compass. You praised them a little too soon for the modesty of their head-dresses ; for as the humor of a sick person is often driven out of one limb into another,

Female Cooperage 123-125

1857.] Female Gooperage. 123 In a few months his lordship will have entered on his eightieth year. Very recently he has gone back to in- vestigations in physical science like those by which his celebrity in youth was won. As the memories of those studious days in the university of his native land, and of the intervening years of struggle and success upon the busiest of the worlds stages, are re- called to him in his sweet southera home, it would be excusable, though his pulse should bent quicklier, and his cheek flush with pride, as he dwells on the remembrance of the labors he has gone through, the good he has accom- plished, and the high example he has given to the world. In such a retro- spect there shonld be a noble and suffi- cient consolation for the sorrows that have fallen to his lot. In advanced age, the bereavements of affection are less keenly deplored, as we look forward to a more quickly forthcoming reunion with the departed objccts of our care and love ; and all the lesser cares and troubles of his long life, all the coldness and injustice, and calumnious misrepre- sentation that have occurred to him in his public course, how abundantly have they been counterbalanced by the inde- fatigable use which it has been per- mitted to him to make of his great natural endowments, either by himself originating, or by ably seconding others, in the protection given to the weak against the strong, in the freedom won for our colonial slaves, in the ameliora- tion of our laws, and in the glorious boon of knowledge, the enlightener to myriads of our fellow-men, who, but for his ceaseless, splendid services, would have been doomed to linger on in hopeless intcllectual darkness. FEMALE CO OPEflAGE. A NEW fashion always proves to be I~ old. Trades change; and a female dress-maker is only a cooper working in crinoline. A portrait of a lady is now no more exhibited in a frame than the lady herself. There is this differ- ence: in the picture the frame is visible; in the original it is hidden. In England, at the present moment, ladies wear hoops in full dress at balls and dinners upon state occasions; at which times, also, men wear dress-coats and white waistcoats, if they like white waistcoats or have them. In this country, a lady wears hoops at breakfast, in the street, calling, and shopping. It is not ascertained that she is ever un- hooped. A laud& ble curiosity inquires, Does the American lady sleep in hoops ? There is reason, however, even in the extravagance of fashion: that is to say, every fashion has some good idea. Some attempt to please; some aim at beau- ty, grace, ease, propriety, or conveni- ence. We do not say how often that effort is successful, or how frequently a fashion is beautiful or graceful. One thin~ only is sure: that to be entirely out of the fashion is to be neither beautiful nor graceful. It is in vain to talk Iroquois in Greece. The finest poetry, the sublimest truth, are equally lost. Fashion, in dress, is the solvent that reconciles and adapts. To be out of fashion, is to be out of tune and time. Now we shall let our betters speak of these mysteries. We said a new fashion is always old. There is no- thin a new in hoops, nn~ we shall soon have patches. In 1715, petticoats had swollen to that degree, that a writer says: If the men, also, adopted the old fashion of trunk-hose, a man and his wife would fill a whole pew in church. In a letter to the Spectator, we find the following account of hoops: Since your withdrawing from this place, the fair sex are run into great extravagancics. Their petticoats which began to swell and heave before you left us, are now blown up into a most enormous concave, and rise evcry day more and more. In short, sir, since our women know themselves to be out of the eye of the Spectator, they will be kept within no compass. You praised them a little too soon for the modesty of their head-dresses ; for as the humor of a sick person is often driven out of one limb into another, 124 Female Gooperage~ [July, their superfluity of ornaments instead of being entirely banished, seem only fallen from their heads upon their lower parts. What they have lost in height, they make it up in breadth, and con- trary to all rules of architecture, widen the foundations at the same time that they shorten the superstructure. A little further on we read: But as we do not yet hear of any particular use in this petticoat, or that it contains anything more than what was supposed to be in those of scantier make, we are wonderfully at a loss about it. * * Among these various conjec- tures, there are many of superstitious tempers, who look upon the hoop peti- coat as a kind of prodij. Some will have it, that it portends the downfall of the French king, and observe that the farthingale appeared in England a little before the ruin of the Spanish monarchy. In another letter to the Spectator, we have the following: I and several of your other female readers have con- formed ourselves to your rules, even to our very dress. There is not one of us but has reduced our outward petticoat to its ancient sizable circumference, though, indeed, we retain still the quilt- ed one underneath, which makes us not altogether unconformable to the fashion. Another writer gives an amusing ac- count of the shape and varieties of hoops: The hoop, he observes, has been known to expand and contract it- self from the size of a butter churn to the circumference of three hobsheads; at one time, it was sloped from the waist in a pyramidal form; at another, it was bent upwards like an inverted bow, by which the two angles, when squeezed upon both sides, came in con- tact with the ears. At present, it is nearly of an oval form, and scarce measures fro~u end to end above twice the length of the wearer. The hoop has, indeed, lost much of its credit in the female world, and has suffered much from the innovation of short sacks arid The same writer proposes that there should be a female parliament to regu- late matters relating to dress and cere- mony; and, after speculating upon the improvements that would be made by such judicious lawgivers, he says: And they would, at least, not suffer enormous hoops to spread themselves across the whole pavement, to the det riment of all honest men going upon business along the street. The petticoat of wide dimeiisions is also much censured: Many are the inconveniences that accrue to her ma- jestys lovin~ subjects from the same petticoats, as hurting mens slims, sweeping down the wares of industri- ous females in the streets. The ladies among us havea supe- rior genius to the men; which have, for some years past, shot out in several exorbitant inventions, for the greater consumption of our manufacture. While the men have contented themselves with the retrenchment of the hat, or the various scallop of the pocket, the ladies have sunk the head-dress, inclosed themselves in the circumference of the hoop petticoat; furbelows and flounces have been disposed at will, the stays have been lowered behind; not to mention the various rolling of the sleeve, and those other nice circumstances of dress, upon which every lady employs her fancy at pleasure. Again it is observed: I sometimes entertained myself by observing what a large quantity of ground was hid un- der spreading petticoats; and what lit- tle patches of earth were covered by ereatures with wigs and hats, in com- parison to those places that were distin- guished by flounces, fringes, and furbe- lows. In a petition to the author of the Tattler, is an amusing satire of these spreading petticoats, which seem to have engrossed the attention of most of the writers of the seventeenth and eight- eenth eentnries : Upon the late in- vention of Mrs. Catharine Crossstiteh, mantun-maker, the petticoats of ladies were too wide for entering into any coach or chair, which was in use be- fore the said invention. That, for the service of the said ladies, your pe- titioner has built a round chair in the form of a lantern, six yards and a half in circumference, with a stool in the centre of it, the said vehicle being so contrived as to receive the passenger by opening in two in the middle, and closing mathematically when she is seated. That your petitioner has also invented a coach, for the reception of one lady only, who is to be let in at the top. That the said coach has been tried by a ladys woman in one of these full petticoats, who was let down from a balcony, and drawn up again by pul 1857.] Female Gooperage. 125 leys, to the great satisfaction of her lady and all who beheld her. Patching was never more prevalent than during the reign of Queen Anne, and severely are those black spots~ censured by writers of the time, both French and English. A French author says Lusage des mouches nest pas inconnu aux dames Fran~oises, mais ii faut ~tre jeune et jolie. En Angleterre, jeunes, vieilles, belles, laides, tout est emmouch~ jusquh la d~cr~pitude; jai plusieurs fois compt~ quinze mouches et davantage, sur la noire et rid~e face dune vicille de soixante et dix ans. Les Anglaises raffinent ainsi sur nos modes. We have other laughable accounts of these patches: The women look like angels, and would be more beautiful than the sun, were it not for little black spots that are apt to break out in their faces, and sometimes rise in very odd figures. I have observed that those little blemishes wear off very soon, but when they disappear in one part of the face, they are very apt to break out in another, insomuch, that I have seen a spot upon the forehead in the afternoon, that was upon the chin in the morning. About the middle of last winter, I went to see an opera at the Haymarket Theatre, where I could not but take no- tice of two parties of very pretty wo- men, that had placed themselves in the opp.osite side-boxes, and seemed drawn up in a kind of battle array, one against the other. After a short sur- vey of them, I found they were patched differently; the faces on one hand, be- ing spotted on the right side of the forehead, and those upon the other, on the left~ I quickly perceived that they cast hostile glances, one upon another; and that their patches were placed in those different situations as party-sig- nals to distinguish friends from fees. In the middle boxes, between these two opposite bodies were several ladies who patched indifferently on both sides of their faces, and seem to sit there with no other intention but to see the opera. Upon inquiry, I found the body of Amazons, on my right hand, were Whigs, and those on my left, Tories: and that these who had placed them- selves in the middle boxes, were a neu- tral party. Nay, I am informed that some of them adhere so steadfastly to their party, and are so far from sa- crificing their zeal for the public to their passion for any particular person, that, in a late draught of marriage articles, a lady has stipulated ~ith her hus- band, that whatever his opinions are, she shall be at liberty to patch on which side she pleases. The absurdity is also thus attacked: Madam, let me beg of you, to take off the patches at the lower end of your left cheek, and I will allow two more under your left eye, which will contrib- ute more to the symmetry of your face; except you would please to remove the ten black atoms on your ladyships chin, and wear one large patch instead of them. If so, you may properly enough retain the three patches above men- tioned. Washes for the complexion, rouge, and alabaster powder, were much used at this time, and continued fashionable for many years, but patches are said to have been finally banished towards the latter end of Annes reign, chiefly through the censures of Addison, who waged continual war against them, and from whom many of the extracts given above have been derived. THO U GilT. ~1THAT is the warriors sword compared with thee? A brittle reed against a giants might! What are the tyrants countless hosts? as light As chaff before the tempest! rrhough he be Shut in with guards, and by the bonded knee Be worshiped, like a god, thou still caust smite, Een then, with viewless arm, and from that height Hurl him into the dust! for thou art free, Boundless, omnipresent, like God, who gave Thee for his crowning gift to man: and when Thou workst with thy best weapon, truths calm pen, To punish and reform, exalt and save, Thou canst combine in one the minds of men, Which strength like that of God, united have!

Thought 125-126

1857.] Female Gooperage. 125 leys, to the great satisfaction of her lady and all who beheld her. Patching was never more prevalent than during the reign of Queen Anne, and severely are those black spots~ censured by writers of the time, both French and English. A French author says Lusage des mouches nest pas inconnu aux dames Fran~oises, mais ii faut ~tre jeune et jolie. En Angleterre, jeunes, vieilles, belles, laides, tout est emmouch~ jusquh la d~cr~pitude; jai plusieurs fois compt~ quinze mouches et davantage, sur la noire et rid~e face dune vicille de soixante et dix ans. Les Anglaises raffinent ainsi sur nos modes. We have other laughable accounts of these patches: The women look like angels, and would be more beautiful than the sun, were it not for little black spots that are apt to break out in their faces, and sometimes rise in very odd figures. I have observed that those little blemishes wear off very soon, but when they disappear in one part of the face, they are very apt to break out in another, insomuch, that I have seen a spot upon the forehead in the afternoon, that was upon the chin in the morning. About the middle of last winter, I went to see an opera at the Haymarket Theatre, where I could not but take no- tice of two parties of very pretty wo- men, that had placed themselves in the opp.osite side-boxes, and seemed drawn up in a kind of battle array, one against the other. After a short sur- vey of them, I found they were patched differently; the faces on one hand, be- ing spotted on the right side of the forehead, and those upon the other, on the left~ I quickly perceived that they cast hostile glances, one upon another; and that their patches were placed in those different situations as party-sig- nals to distinguish friends from fees. In the middle boxes, between these two opposite bodies were several ladies who patched indifferently on both sides of their faces, and seem to sit there with no other intention but to see the opera. Upon inquiry, I found the body of Amazons, on my right hand, were Whigs, and those on my left, Tories: and that these who had placed them- selves in the middle boxes, were a neu- tral party. Nay, I am informed that some of them adhere so steadfastly to their party, and are so far from sa- crificing their zeal for the public to their passion for any particular person, that, in a late draught of marriage articles, a lady has stipulated ~ith her hus- band, that whatever his opinions are, she shall be at liberty to patch on which side she pleases. The absurdity is also thus attacked: Madam, let me beg of you, to take off the patches at the lower end of your left cheek, and I will allow two more under your left eye, which will contrib- ute more to the symmetry of your face; except you would please to remove the ten black atoms on your ladyships chin, and wear one large patch instead of them. If so, you may properly enough retain the three patches above men- tioned. Washes for the complexion, rouge, and alabaster powder, were much used at this time, and continued fashionable for many years, but patches are said to have been finally banished towards the latter end of Annes reign, chiefly through the censures of Addison, who waged continual war against them, and from whom many of the extracts given above have been derived. THO U GilT. ~1THAT is the warriors sword compared with thee? A brittle reed against a giants might! What are the tyrants countless hosts? as light As chaff before the tempest! rrhough he be Shut in with guards, and by the bonded knee Be worshiped, like a god, thou still caust smite, Een then, with viewless arm, and from that height Hurl him into the dust! for thou art free, Boundless, omnipresent, like God, who gave Thee for his crowning gift to man: and when Thou workst with thy best weapon, truths calm pen, To punish and reform, exalt and save, Thou canst combine in one the minds of men, Which strength like that of God, united have! [July, 126 EDITORIAL NOTES. AMERICAN LITERATURE AND REPRINTS. IRVING has finIshed the fourth volume of his LVe of Washington, and having brought his hero safely through the war, he leaves him at the threshold of the Presi- dency, and there the biographer pauses, alluding with modesty and feeling to him- self. The whole work, as far as completed, and however much further it may be car- ried, will be the popular and universally read Life of Washington. The story of his career is told with a simplicity which is the ripe maturity of a lovely style, and with a sustained interest which will draw every reader, of every age, from chapter to chapter. Like the authors Colum- bus and Mahomet, the Washington is invested with all the picturesqueness of which the suhject seems capable. And yet with great differences; the countries and the times of his other heroes are, in themselves, romantic to the imagination. But by no possibility can that tender hue, which is the complexion of distance and strangeness, be imparted to recent or very modern events. But no other author could have done so much for this pictur- esqueness, by the mere charm of treat- ment, as Irving. He is beyond criti- cism, in a certain sense. I-us bold is so sure upon the public heart, that criti- cism cannot dispute his possession, it can only discriminate and compare his liter- ary qualities. It is enou,,h to say of his Life qf Washington, that it is entirely the book which Washington Irving must write upon such a theme, and that, while other historians might have philosophized more upon Washingtons character and due place in history, none could have told, ivith more sympathy, skill, and interest, the story of his life. We cannot forbear quoting the last words of the hook, both for what the author says of his hero and of himself: In regard to the character and conduct of Washington, we have endeavored to place his deeds in the clearest light, and left them to speak for themselves, generally avoiding com- ment or eulogium. We have quoted his own words and writings largely, to explain his feelings and motives, and give the true key to his policy; for never did man leave a more truthful mirror of his heart and mind, and a more thorough exponent of his conduct, than he has left in his copious correspondence. There his character is to be found in all its majestic simplicity, its massive grandeur and quiet colossal strength. He was no hero of romance; there was nothing of romantic heroism in his nature. As a warrior he was incapable of fear, but made no merit of defy- in danger. He fought for a cause, but not for personal renown. Gladly, when he had won the cause, he hung up his sword never again to take it down. Glory, that blatant word, which haunts some military minds like the bray of the trumpet, formed no part of his aspirations. To act justly was his in- stinct, to promote the public weal his con- stant effort, to deserve the affections of hood men his ambition. With such qualifi- cations for the pure exercise of sound judg- ment and comprehensive wisdom, he ascend- ed the Presidential chair. There for the present we leave him. So far our work is complete, comprehending the whole military life of Washington, and his agency in pub.lic affairs, up to the formation of our Constitution. How well we have exe- cuted it we leave to the public to determine hoping to find it, as heretofore, far snore easily satisfied at the result of our labors than we are ourselves. Should the measure of health and hood spirits, with which a kind Provi- dence has blessed us beyond the usual term of literary labor, be still continued, we may go on, and in another volume give the Presi- dential career and closing life of XVashington. In the mean time, having found a resting- place in our task, we stay our hands, lay by our pen, and seek that relaxation and repose which gathering years require. Whoever wishes to read one of the most passionate and pathetic novels in English literature will take with him, during the summer vacation, The Colle- gians, by Gerald Griffin. He was a young Irishman, who died several years since, after writing a series of worksnovels and poetry, which gave him little re- putation during his life, but since his death have given him fame as, in our judgment, the best Irish novelist. The picture of Irish character and manners ,a half century since, in The Collegians, is masterly, and the power with which the fond, impetuous, passionate, thoroughly Celtic nature of llardress Cregan is drawn, evinces rare genius. Griffin died young, a disappointed man. But this one story, if nothing else of his, will surely live among the very best novels of the time. It is full

American Literature and Reprints Editorial Notes 126-129

[July, 126 EDITORIAL NOTES. AMERICAN LITERATURE AND REPRINTS. IRVING has finIshed the fourth volume of his LVe of Washington, and having brought his hero safely through the war, he leaves him at the threshold of the Presi- dency, and there the biographer pauses, alluding with modesty and feeling to him- self. The whole work, as far as completed, and however much further it may be car- ried, will be the popular and universally read Life of Washington. The story of his career is told with a simplicity which is the ripe maturity of a lovely style, and with a sustained interest which will draw every reader, of every age, from chapter to chapter. Like the authors Colum- bus and Mahomet, the Washington is invested with all the picturesqueness of which the suhject seems capable. And yet with great differences; the countries and the times of his other heroes are, in themselves, romantic to the imagination. But by no possibility can that tender hue, which is the complexion of distance and strangeness, be imparted to recent or very modern events. But no other author could have done so much for this pictur- esqueness, by the mere charm of treat- ment, as Irving. He is beyond criti- cism, in a certain sense. I-us bold is so sure upon the public heart, that criti- cism cannot dispute his possession, it can only discriminate and compare his liter- ary qualities. It is enou,,h to say of his Life qf Washington, that it is entirely the book which Washington Irving must write upon such a theme, and that, while other historians might have philosophized more upon Washingtons character and due place in history, none could have told, ivith more sympathy, skill, and interest, the story of his life. We cannot forbear quoting the last words of the hook, both for what the author says of his hero and of himself: In regard to the character and conduct of Washington, we have endeavored to place his deeds in the clearest light, and left them to speak for themselves, generally avoiding com- ment or eulogium. We have quoted his own words and writings largely, to explain his feelings and motives, and give the true key to his policy; for never did man leave a more truthful mirror of his heart and mind, and a more thorough exponent of his conduct, than he has left in his copious correspondence. There his character is to be found in all its majestic simplicity, its massive grandeur and quiet colossal strength. He was no hero of romance; there was nothing of romantic heroism in his nature. As a warrior he was incapable of fear, but made no merit of defy- in danger. He fought for a cause, but not for personal renown. Gladly, when he had won the cause, he hung up his sword never again to take it down. Glory, that blatant word, which haunts some military minds like the bray of the trumpet, formed no part of his aspirations. To act justly was his in- stinct, to promote the public weal his con- stant effort, to deserve the affections of hood men his ambition. With such qualifi- cations for the pure exercise of sound judg- ment and comprehensive wisdom, he ascend- ed the Presidential chair. There for the present we leave him. So far our work is complete, comprehending the whole military life of Washington, and his agency in pub.lic affairs, up to the formation of our Constitution. How well we have exe- cuted it we leave to the public to determine hoping to find it, as heretofore, far snore easily satisfied at the result of our labors than we are ourselves. Should the measure of health and hood spirits, with which a kind Provi- dence has blessed us beyond the usual term of literary labor, be still continued, we may go on, and in another volume give the Presi- dential career and closing life of XVashington. In the mean time, having found a resting- place in our task, we stay our hands, lay by our pen, and seek that relaxation and repose which gathering years require. Whoever wishes to read one of the most passionate and pathetic novels in English literature will take with him, during the summer vacation, The Colle- gians, by Gerald Griffin. He was a young Irishman, who died several years since, after writing a series of worksnovels and poetry, which gave him little re- putation during his life, but since his death have given him fame as, in our judgment, the best Irish novelist. The picture of Irish character and manners ,a half century since, in The Collegians, is masterly, and the power with which the fond, impetuous, passionate, thoroughly Celtic nature of llardress Cregan is drawn, evinces rare genius. Griffin died young, a disappointed man. But this one story, if nothing else of his, will surely live among the very best novels of the time. It is full 1857.] Editorial Notes-Literature. 127 of incident, and an absorbing interest allures the reader to the end, and leaves him with a melted heart and moistened eye. Love, pride, and prejudice are the themes. An Ophelia-like heroine is tossed upon the bitter waves of a sea of passion she cannot control, and the end is more piteous than Ophelias. There have been at least two editions of the work puhlished in this country at different times. The last one, hefore the present, was a very poor, cheap, Philadelphia edition, which could have done little for the reputation of The Collegians. But a new edition of the Complete Works of Gerald Grffin, to be concluded in ahout thirty weekly numhers, is now issuing by D. and J. Sadlier & Co., New York, and is more than a third part puhlished. It is a very convenient and at- tractive edition. It will contain all his novels, dramas, and lyrics. The latter have a thoroughly Irish flavor, and will, we sincerely hope, he the means of making the talented young Irishman widely known, and. consequently, admired in this country. As the dog days approach, the novels multiply. Derhy & Jackson continue their convenient family edition of Marryatt, and the standard old English novelists. The tastes of different times will differ, but Fielding and Smollett must still hold their places as delineators of the English man- ners of their epoch. They are invalu- able companions to their contemporary his- tory., In fact, no man has properly read history, who has not studied in their own works, and in descriptions of their man- ners and habits, the people whose govern- ment, and wars, and politics only, the pom- pous muse of history condescends to heed. Tom Jones is as essential a foot-note to the English life of the reign of George Second as the letters of Horace Walpole. Marry- att will always have a large and loving audience, so long as men and boys have the love of adventure in their hearts. There are few nautical novels better than Peter Simple, few more captivating to the genuine novel reader than Jacob Faithful. The Appletons give us Miss Yonges last, Dyneeor Terrace. It has the same care- ful details of what seem to us quite un- interesting events and people, that make up her other stories, excepting perhaps The Heir of Redclyffe. Merely to copy nature, is not necessarily to make a fine work of art, whether in painting or literature. However, it is de riguevr to admire what- ever the fair Yonge chooses to send us, and there will he no lack of sea-side and valley admirers of this last effort of the distin- guished authoress. Mr. Edward Stephens issues The Heiress of Grea2hurst, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, author of Fashion and Famine. The other works of this lady belong properly to the melo-dramatic and sensation schools. From a rapid glance at this one, we should sup- pose it to be of the purely romantic school. and not less attractive and interesting than any of its predecessors. Gerald Massey is introduced in blue and gold by Ticknor & Fields. When he appeared in plain muslin, in his earlier days, we expressed our opinion of him at some length. He is evidently a man of warm feeling and a sensuous fancy, but we do not find great poetry in his hand- some volume. It is still, to us, a mixture of Tennyson and Ehenezer Elliott; al- though so eminent a man as Landor alludes to Homer and Shakespeare, in speaking of Massey. The feeling is, beyond a question, strong and real; but the expression of it is, equally beyond doubt, determined by that of other men. Unpleasantly often there is an affectation of intensity, which, with so much genuine ardor, is entirely un- necessary. In the same series, Mrs. Jamesons Diary of an Ennuyde tastes of Italy, as dried rose-leaves of roses. The feminine grace of this writer is nowhere more agree- ably displayed than in this little volume; and her womanly sense and feeling no- where more eloquently expressed than in her Sisters of Charity, a new work just issued by the same house. She says that she believes that there exists at the core of our social condition a great mistake to be corrected, and a great want to be supplied; that men and women must learn to under- stand each other, and work together for the common good, before any amount of per- manent moral and religious progress can be effected; and that, in the most compye- hensive sense of the word, we need Sisters of Charity everywhere. Mrs. Jameson treats the subject with the instinctive delicacy of a lady, but of one who understands that woman is the root of lady, as the vine is of the grape- blossom. Let every summer-lounger take, with the womens novels of the season, ~28 Editorial NotesLiterature. [July, this womans view of womans sphere and duty, and remember that Mrs. Brownin,~, Mrs. Jameson, and Mrs. Norton are three English women, whose position in literature nud general respect claim for their views of the woman questioli, an attention which is rarely gravely given to it by the general public. And when, to their appeals, is added the splendor of Miss Nightingales actions, the most determined reviler of Female Conventions may, with perfect pro- priety, retire to his closet and ask him- self: Is darning my stockings the whole duty of woman ? The Family-Circle Glee-Book, compiled by Elias Howe (Mason Brothers). Whoever makes a family sing is a social benefactor; but whoever makes them sing good songs is himself worthy of a tobgesang, a song of praise, which we desire with proper fire, at once to sing, and homage bring, and make our how to Mr. Howe, and hope that Messrs. Mason llrothers will soon give us others of Mr. howes compilations. The present is an attractive collection of good old choice favorites, which are never, by any chance, heard in the Academy or in Mrs. Potiphars drawing-room; but which are now sung, and have been, and will be, sung in a hundred happy homes, and are full, all of them, of associations sweet as their own music and tender as their own sentiment. We hope it may be the in- fluence of tuch publications to tempt out the voices that are silent now, because they cannot warble the serenade of the Trovatore or the barcarole of Luerezza. Modest voices, remember that there are Marios, and Giuglinis, and Brignolis to sing the Italian operas in great theatres, and to thousands of people; do you sing the songs you can, to the tens, to the fives, perhaps only to the one, who will listen in the sacred seclusion of home with the beart as well as with flounces and kid gloves. The Life of Dr. Kane is in preparation by Dr. William Elder, of Philadelphia (Childs & Peterson). These pages have already recorded our estimate of the value of that life, and the account of it cannot fail to be of the most permanent interest. No books are more entertainin,, than the lives of famous travelers and explorers, and all men of action, men who went where most of us go only in wishing and in imagination, and who did what poetry makes men famous for doing. There is no more delightful story-hook than Southeys Life of Nelson ; a simple, gra- phic, coherent chronicle of the great ad- mirals career. Dr. Elder is well known as an eloquent and original orator, and his contributions to our literature, although sometimes eccentric beyond quaintness, have displayed an undoubted vigor, and fertility of resources. There is no reason why he should not make the biography of the brave young Kane one of the en- duringly valuable works upon the library- shelfa book to stand side by side with the heros own fascinating Journalsside by side with Parrys, and Backs, and Franklins, and all the stories of Arctic adventurers. Torn Browns i5cliool-L~fe (Ticknor & Fields) is a novel of school-life at Rugby, in England, in the days of the ,,ood and famous Dr. Arnold. It is exceedingly in- teresting and valuable to us Americans, as showing us the very interior of a life of which we know nothing. It is a curious companion-piece to Dickens Do-the-hoys Hall, and Thackerays Dr. Birch and his Young Friends at Rodwell Regis. The book is written in an easy, idiomatic, and manly style, and is of a character to interest particularly the American reader showing him how young Englishmen come often to live easy and manly lives as well as write in the same way. The Rev. John Baylcy, of the Virginia annual conference, has published a work concerning Marriage as it is, and as it should l~e (M. W. Dodd). The question discussed is one in which the race is supposed to be profoundly interested, and ought to wish to be instructed. Perhaps the task of instruction may be difficult. But let the reader hear Mr. Bayley speak for himself concerning money in matrimony. It is true when the match is in other respects a suitable one, wealth is not to be despised but when the question is between wealth on the one hand, and a suitable husband or a wife on the other, it should never be for- gotten that riches will never purchase intellect or virtue; but that these noble qualities may procure riches, and will never fail to secure all that is needful for happiness. The book is thus seen to be consolatory reading for mothers who will be compelled to return from their summer campaigns with diLughtcrs unmarried. 1857.] Our Window. 129 The .Norse Folk, by C. L. Brace, Secretary of the Childrens Aid Society. (New York: C. Scribner). Mr. C. L. Brace some years since marked out a field of labor for himself, in which he has thor- oughly enlisted the sympathy and spiritual companionship of good people of every creed and party, and of all parts of our country. This is sufficient evidence that an unusually good judgment is united in his character to genuine catholic and com- prehensive benevolence. Whatever such a man writes for the Christian public is sure to obtain the Christian publics attention, and to be popular, instructive, and ably sug- gestive of needed social and philanthropic improvements. In the .Norse Folk, Mr. Brace has given us a satisfactory insight of the condition, character, and manners of the people, together with a sketch of the exist- ing government, church, and other institu- tions, especially those of a philanthropic character, of a region with regard to which Miss Bremers works awakened a curiosity, in many respects, hitherto but little grati- fied. Mr. Braces capital qualification as a writing-traveler, is his unwearying and re- markably general impulse of inquiry, and his faculty of making himself at home, and getting information directly and circum- stantially from the people with whom chance brings him in contact. In this he even excels most other American travelers, though, as a personal observer, he is rather below Their average ; doubtless, because he is too often preoccupied with reflection. He is industrious in the examination of documents and statistics, and judicious in collation and condensation. The same qualities of style which charac- terize the Home Life in Germany and Hun- gary in 1851, of Mr. Brace, are found in this work, constantly evincing a tenderly discriminating and vigorous capacity of language. There are frequent infelicitous expressions, and sometimes a slip-shod~ memorandum-like method of statement which would not be unbecoming in a newspaper market report, but is hardly in good taste when addressed to so large and respectable an audience as a work of this character is sure to command. It is neatly printed, and illustrated with toler- able engravings and wood-cuts; but, as a book for reference, would be more valuable if supplied with a map. Sermons by Ephraim Peabody, with a .Memoir (Crosby, Nichols & Co.). This volume is a collection of discourses by one of the purest and noblest of men. His life was simple, uneventful, and pious. His character was of that rare beauty which foreshows the era of peace and good-will among men. The engraving prefixed to the volume, from Cheneys portrait, has the tender beatification of expression which that exquisite artist was wont to be- stow upon all his friends. But the winning human face of Mr. Peabody was but a thin veil of the angelic beneath. He was not a man to be widely known; nor are his ser- mons of a nature to be generally read. But he was a man to be loved by those who knew him, as few men are loved, and to bequeath his memory to them as a per- petual plea for an honest and God-serving life: his own life having so unfailingly assured them t~iat of such is the kingdom of heaven. From the same house, we receive Christian Consolations; sermons by Rev. A. P. Peabody. This is a name of great clerical eminence in New England, and the volume in question is justly named. It is a series of discourses in which Chris- tian truth is applied to life, and is especi- ally intended for the afflicted. There is a mingled manliness and tenderness in the style which are quite sure to commend what is said to the thoughtful sympathy of the wise and good. OUR WINDOW. HERE we open a window that looks out upon the world: and here we shall sit, month by month, and watch all that passes; so that whoever looks with us will see whatever is most interesting at home and abroad. VOL. x.9 From this elevation we can catch the humorous aspects of events; we can make our little comments as one thing rapidly chases another before our eyes: here we can see objects that are lost to those passing in the street, objects which were worth re

Our Window Editorial Notes 129-144

1857.] Our Window. 129 The .Norse Folk, by C. L. Brace, Secretary of the Childrens Aid Society. (New York: C. Scribner). Mr. C. L. Brace some years since marked out a field of labor for himself, in which he has thor- oughly enlisted the sympathy and spiritual companionship of good people of every creed and party, and of all parts of our country. This is sufficient evidence that an unusually good judgment is united in his character to genuine catholic and com- prehensive benevolence. Whatever such a man writes for the Christian public is sure to obtain the Christian publics attention, and to be popular, instructive, and ably sug- gestive of needed social and philanthropic improvements. In the .Norse Folk, Mr. Brace has given us a satisfactory insight of the condition, character, and manners of the people, together with a sketch of the exist- ing government, church, and other institu- tions, especially those of a philanthropic character, of a region with regard to which Miss Bremers works awakened a curiosity, in many respects, hitherto but little grati- fied. Mr. Braces capital qualification as a writing-traveler, is his unwearying and re- markably general impulse of inquiry, and his faculty of making himself at home, and getting information directly and circum- stantially from the people with whom chance brings him in contact. In this he even excels most other American travelers, though, as a personal observer, he is rather below Their average ; doubtless, because he is too often preoccupied with reflection. He is industrious in the examination of documents and statistics, and judicious in collation and condensation. The same qualities of style which charac- terize the Home Life in Germany and Hun- gary in 1851, of Mr. Brace, are found in this work, constantly evincing a tenderly discriminating and vigorous capacity of language. There are frequent infelicitous expressions, and sometimes a slip-shod~ memorandum-like method of statement which would not be unbecoming in a newspaper market report, but is hardly in good taste when addressed to so large and respectable an audience as a work of this character is sure to command. It is neatly printed, and illustrated with toler- able engravings and wood-cuts; but, as a book for reference, would be more valuable if supplied with a map. Sermons by Ephraim Peabody, with a .Memoir (Crosby, Nichols & Co.). This volume is a collection of discourses by one of the purest and noblest of men. His life was simple, uneventful, and pious. His character was of that rare beauty which foreshows the era of peace and good-will among men. The engraving prefixed to the volume, from Cheneys portrait, has the tender beatification of expression which that exquisite artist was wont to be- stow upon all his friends. But the winning human face of Mr. Peabody was but a thin veil of the angelic beneath. He was not a man to be widely known; nor are his ser- mons of a nature to be generally read. But he was a man to be loved by those who knew him, as few men are loved, and to bequeath his memory to them as a per- petual plea for an honest and God-serving life: his own life having so unfailingly assured them t~iat of such is the kingdom of heaven. From the same house, we receive Christian Consolations; sermons by Rev. A. P. Peabody. This is a name of great clerical eminence in New England, and the volume in question is justly named. It is a series of discourses in which Chris- tian truth is applied to life, and is especi- ally intended for the afflicted. There is a mingled manliness and tenderness in the style which are quite sure to commend what is said to the thoughtful sympathy of the wise and good. OUR WINDOW. HERE we open a window that looks out upon the world: and here we shall sit, month by month, and watch all that passes; so that whoever looks with us will see whatever is most interesting at home and abroad. VOL. x.9 From this elevation we can catch the humorous aspects of events; we can make our little comments as one thing rapidly chases another before our eyes: here we can see objects that are lost to those passing in the street, objects which were worth re 130 Our Window. [July, membering, but which have drifted down the month, and are forgotten. We can hear the new singers, as they sing at home or far over the sea. We can see the new pictures that are painted at home or in England, in France, or Germany. We can assist with our eyes and ears at great festivals and solemnities wherever they occur. We can see the belle as she adjusts the skirt for the last time ; the beau, as he perfects his cravat-tie pride, spreading its plumage, and forgetting that, though it ornamentsits ugliness, it does not conceal it; and folly flying fondly after its own tail. From Our Window we can look into the windows of the Tuileries, and see if the Empress is really shedding hoops and cut- ting crinoline. We can gaze into the seamstresss attic-chamber, and see if she did really stain with tears the bridal robe she was stitching. So, when you have done your days work and your days talkwhen the light is tranquil and the air quiet, when the hour comes in which you wish neither to wrangle nor to study, but to refresh and revive the mind that is teased all daythen come, and lean with us out of Our Window, and see what motley the Old World is wear- ing. Just when nature is loveliest with us, art puts forth its annual blossoms. We throw up Our Window to look at the cherry blossoms, and a bit of Casilears salutes us. We think to see the faithful old apple orchards in their brief carnival an~ per- fumed splendor, and behold the sumptuous Church or the fruity Gray. We look for summerand the Arcadian serenity of Kensett, the soft repose of Durand are be- fore our eyes: for the gushing fountains in the fields, and, lo! the impetuous vigor of hicks, or the suppressed power of Page. In fact, when the warm sun in the sky, and the airy muslins in the street, remind us that the time of the singing of birds has come, and we are on our loitering way to Hoboken, to hear the voice of the tur- tlethe old familiar face of the placard of the National Academy exhibition catches us by the eye, and allures us into realms of eternal spring, of unfading summer, and of relentless winter. This year it was the thirty-second an- nual exhibition, and, perhaps, thirty-two times better than any recent one. In the morning the rooms have been a quiet re- treat for the student who wished to study, and learn to tell a Rossiter from a Hunt- ington. In the evening, they have been thron~ed with a murmuring crowd, who lingered listlessly in the heat, and pro- nounced Churchs Andes beautiful! per- fect ! Probably no two visitors agreed upon any theory of art, or canon of artistic criti- cism. They all knew what pleased them, and they would have laughed as much at the terrible Mr. Ruskin, who says that you can know about pictures precisely as you know about the moral law, as at a jeweler, who should say that you had no moral right to prefer opals to diamonds. Most of us who look into a gallery are entirely unfit to talk about pictures from any other point of view than our private pleasure. Those of us who have always lived among brick houses, and have seen green fields and blue sky, as a luxury to be taken in white coats, during a sultry summer month, wisely declare that Indigo, who has studied tint by tint the landscape he exhibits, gets his blues too dark, or his yellows too bright, while we are sure that Buff is no painter; for he gets his reds too warm. Now it seems to us as if Indigo and Buff probably knew a great deal more about their business than we do; and when you look around the brilliant walls of the Acad- emy, and remember how many long hours of patient toil, how many days of hard ~truggle and exposure, how much devotion, and passion, and despair, are worked into that web of shifting color, how many of those pictures are the sacrifice of a life upon the shrine of beautyis it not as well to see that the gray is properly cool, even if the red is warm; and that if the head you pass with a sniW because it is catalogued in New York as the work of Tripe, were labeled in a foreign gallery, Titian, it would extort from you the most willing admiration. Next year, when you ascend those stairs and pay your mitelet it be a double mite, for a season-ticketto the admirable Mrs. Croker, whose presence is a pleasant part of the annual exhibition, remember that you are not going to see so many feet of canvas, covered with so many pounds of 1857.] Our Windou,. 1~31 paint, but fragments of the hope and talent of a hundred fellow-men. If they are not Claudes, or Raphaels, or Giorgiones, or Michael Angelos, what then? Must all flowers be roses, or relinquish the name and the ministry of flowers? You can surely say many a sharp thing as you sur- vey the pictnres, for you are a witty man; but remember that the arrow you fly, only for the sake of admiring its glittering point, strikes mortally the young bird newly trying its wings, or the stag push- ing bravely through the forest. The picture is poor enough, if you choose, that is clear; but how if the un- protected and appealing work could criti- cise you in turn? Stand before the poorest of all the pictures, and, having marked it well, ask yourself only Am I a hetter specimen of a man than that is of a pic- ture?~ So shall you learn humility, and abase your nodding crest of arrogance. And has not every landscape-picture some touches and suggestions of lovely aspects of nature? The very outline and attempted coloring of quiet fields, and shad- owy woods, and singing waters, do they not breathe a sweeter light into the day upon which they are seen, hung on city walls? If, in his dreary arctic night at the pole, the brave Kane could have seen even the poorest copy of the worst Claude, would it not have heen to him as a glimpse of paradise? Now Broadway, on a spring morning, swarming with the fresh toilettes of the brief season in which muslins may be worn, is not precisely like an arctic region with Esquimaux. Yet, for all that, whoever steps aside and dailies for an hour in the Academy gallery, may have, as Kane might have had, glimpses of paradise. The doors are closed now, until another year, but still, from Our Window, we pla- cidly survey what is past, and enjoy plea- sures that are no more. Not that we count the seeing of pictures among past plea- sures. Beauty has the immortal elixir, and never grows old to the eye or to the mind. Like the stars and the flowers, fine works of art are aiway fresh in the seeing or in the remembering. The thirty-second exhibition is closed. The wits have made merry over works that were not conceived nor executed with a laugh. The newspa- pers have extolled and decried. The artists have read with pride, or fury, or placid disgust, whatcver the public censors have said. The pictures have gone to parlor walls, the painters to their studios, and the public about its business. But we are all agreed that it was a capi- tal displaythat Church was magnificent in his great sweeps of mountain ranges sunk in glorious haze, with cascades, streams, strange foliage, and all the luxu- riant splendor of the tropics. Church copes adequately with great themes. He paints the Andes as easily as many men a river meadow. We are agreed, too, that Gray is the same fond lover of the Vene- tian bloom, and, in a world of modern no- tions, is faithful to the traditions of his art; that his compeer, Huntington, has not yet lost any cunning from his fingers, and holds his place; that the President, Du- rand, if more skillful in details, is not less placid and pastoral, our Thomson of the brush ; that Ke nsett was surely born under a cloudless sky, so serene and full of sum- mer joy are his beautiful pictures ; that Rossiter would outdazzle the day, if pig- ments were sunbeams; that hickss vigor found never a fitter subject than Henry Ward Beecher; that Casilears muse of inspiration should be a flitting, shy Egeria, so rare, and delicate, and tender is his touch ; that Cropseys hand is still un- equal to his teeming fancy; that Greene and Baker take rank with our best por- trait-painters ; that Hall, and Huhbard, and Shattuck, and a score more beside them, illuminate the walls with glowing prophe- cies of the future glory of Academy exhi- bitions; and that Page, in a grand, melan~ choly way, vindicates his position as the greatest master of portrait we have yet produced. Upon some of these things, perhaps, we are all agreed. But each mistress liked her lovers picture best, and each friend his friends. And no one could leave the rooms without a higher respect for the per- formance as well as the prospect of Ameri- can art. There have been many poorer exhibitions in older places. We will not say that there have been poorer ones in London; but we will see what pictures London was looking at in the same spring days, that we may hring the artists of the two countries together, in our annual sur- vey. Thus speaks London of this years Eng- lish pictures: 132 Our Window. [July, We miss from among the exhibitors this year, with special regret, Mr. E. M. Ward and Mr. Webster. Sir Charles East- lake, also, and Mr. Lee are unrepresented, and we have from Mr. Herbert only a scene On the coast of France; a wide prospect of sea and coast, which is certainly a pleas- nut little picture, although not what we are taught to look for from his hands. But if we miss some familiar artists, we have compensation in the reappearance of, at any rate, one whose handiwork has been of late years little seen. There is a picture by Mr. Muiready, painted in accordance with the will of Mr. Vernon, for the Ver- non Gallery, called The Young Brother. A sister holds him, and an elder brother tickles him lovingly behind the ear. His gesture and expression are delightful. Last year, again, Mr. Maclise did not exhibit; this year he has supplied, in his Peter the Great, one of the most important pictures of the season. Peter, working with his companions in the Deptford Dockyard, is visited by William the Third. The rough Muscovite, who is intent on modeling, not only a ship, but an empirevigorous and youthful, with rugged locks, a fearless look, bare arms, of which the veins are full with recent labor, and limbs spread abroad contrasts significantly, as young Russia, with the King of England, who stands with his limbs all in a line, erect, gloved tightly, frilled, wigged, and no longer young. Close to the hand of the half-barbarous Peter are the luxuries of the flesh, which were essential to his happinessthe fruits, the wine, the actresses, the dwarf, and monkey; but while there is all that kind of life surrounding him, there is expressed throughout the whole picture his appetite and passion for the science of the west. The marvelous execution of the details in this work does not strike the eye so soon as its complete expression of a thought. Mr. Maclise furnishes, also, this year, a special attraction to the North Room, in the shape of forty-two noble designs in out- line, illustrative of the Story of the Con- quest. Over Mr. Maclises Peter hangs a grand study of deer upon a misty peak, Scene in Braemar, the chief work for this year of Sir Edwin Landseer, and one of the best works he has exhibited. The other con- tributions of this painter are a study of a Rough and Ready pony, and a bit of dog- fancy, entitled Uncle Tom and h.is Wife for sale~ Uncle Tom being a blackfaced bull terrier, chained with his spouse against a wall, and within sight of a dog-whip. The picture is, indeed, not to be seen with- out emotion; but it is meant to beget mirth, not melancholy. Mr. Stanfields best work for the season represents the wreck of a vessel that had been part of the Spanish Armada, and that had been firing at rocks, mistaken for a castle, in the bay now called after this in- cident Port na Spania, near the Giants Causeway, on the coast of Ireland. Inci- dents of the wreck are mingled with the surging of the waters, and, through mist and spray, the weird cliffs of the Giants Causeway show a coast entirely pitiless. Mr. Stanfleld exhibits three other good works, of which we shall speak in future notices. Mr. Augustus Eggs picture of Es- monds Return after the Battle of Wynen- del attracted constant admiration at the private view. Its quiet fpllness of thought is remarkable. The figures of Beatrice and Esmond, faultless in conception, are, without one trace of exaggeration, perfect in expression Mr. David Roberts has sent three pic- tures: two of church interiorsone of them a fine Interior of the Duomo at Mi- lanand a square in Rome, the Piazza Navona; by these works he is very well represented. Mr. Millais exhibits three pictures, and appears in them to better advantage than be did in the works contributed last year. His Alws from [Tome represents a young Highlander on duty in a trench before Sebastopol, shouldering his musket while he treads among the shot and shell that tell the danger of his post, and reads a letter from home with a softened look upon his face that wins the heart as one observes it. The Sir isambras at the Ford, too, is a picture full of good expression. The gray haired knight in heavy mail, who rides the good horse Lancival across the stream, with a barefooted girl before him and a barefooted boy behind, the girl clasped in the armor, the boy clasping it, is so painted that one may sit and dream before the work. The third picture, that of the Escape qf a H dieof a girl saved by her lover from an auto-da-f6, we like least of the three at a first glance, but the attitude 1857.] Our Window. 133 of shelter and protection in the lover, who is become to the girl a haven and a for- tress, is conceived most skillfully. Of Mr. Creswicks fresh and airy En- glish landscapes there are three, and there are four pictures by Mr. Redgrave. Mr. Witherington sends also four landscapes, two of which are especially worthy of his name. Among Mr. Cookes pictures is a very real bit of the English coast, a Crab and Lobster Shore. Attention is caught very surely by Mr. Dyces little picture of Titian preparing to make his First Essay in Coloringwith juices of flowers ; the artist-spirit and de- termined purpose of the boy speak here plainly enough out of his face. Mr. Copes large picture of the Pilgrim Fathers quitting the Dntch coast for New England demands more attention than we have yet given to At. We now simply place it upon record among notable things of the season. His little domestic scene of Morning Games at Breakfast-time is to be seen at a glance, and liked of course. But at the head of the domestic pic- tures of the year we must place Mr. Fn~ds First Break in the Family. The mail coach has gone by a moorland cottage, and has borne our bonnie young Willie awa. Mother and father, grandmother, a sister budding into womanhood, and younger ones, with the dog in front, who is half disposed to run after his vanished play- fellowall have come forth to gaze until the coach is out of sight. The grouping, the expression given to each person in the little moorland family, has been exquisitely felt by the painter. One sentiment per- vades every corner of the canvas, even to the perplexity of the hen who has all her chickens with her except one, which is on the other side of a gate, and cries because it cant get over. All notice of the portraits we defer, only indulging ourselves with a mention of Mr. Grants Marquis of Lansdowne. Of the sterling character of several of the pictures, which have not been named in the preceding sketch, we can give no better evidence than by saying that among them is Mr. Leslies Sir Roger de Coverley at receive the New York approval of a singer as final. And this is not wonderful; for either we do not believe in our own opin- ions, or we feel that we do not know enough to make them. From Our Window we looked into the Academy of Music, here in New York, and beheld the melancholy failure of Signor Jacopi, whose portrait had illuminated the shop windows. Dry up, Jacobs ! was the dreadful fiat laughed down from the terrible gods in the gallery. The gods knew Mr. Charles Jacobs, in Chatham street, and would not tolerate any Signor Jacopi, in Irving Place. It was a just judgment of the gods; but how could they inflict it? The tortures of the old martyrs were mild in the comparison. Madame Cora de Wilhorst with her shrill and uninteresting, but flexible and trained voice, has sailed for Italy to study and, let us hope, to succeed. She seems re- solved upon success; and hearty resolu- tion always deserves it. But Europe will not care a straw what we thought of her. She has a great deal more reputation in New York than ever Parodi had in Lon- don. And yet when Parodi was brought here, she was to be a triumph because Lon- don had approved her. How long will it be before London applauds because New York approves? We cannot even control Boston yet, and Philadelphia sets up a prima donna of its own, and does not care how coldly we smile upon Gazzaniga. This will continue just as long as the foreign estimate is a judgment of intelli- gence based upon certain canons of art. In Europe people know that there are great limitations to every art and artist. In America we forget that Jenny Lind is, after all, no miracle but only a woman who sings, and so we are disappointed. We had Bosio and we thought her a very pretty singer. Bosio went to Europe, and Europe instantly knew that there were only a very few living women who sang better, and ranked her accordingly. But whatever our knowledge or judg- ment may be, there is no doubt that we like to bear of good singers as well as to hear them. Whoever sings with brilliant success anywhere, will hereafter look to _____ ~ an American career as, pecuniarily, the most important of all. The artists laugh It seems impossible for America to make at ifs; but they find a hundred cents in a musical fame. Paris and London will not every one of our dollars. 134 Our Window. [July, And now that phcenix, a really fine tenor, has appeared in London. The Leader gives a satisfactory account of him in Bellinis Puritani. Signor Giuglini has fairly taken rank in London as the legitimate successor of iRubini. In Bellinis music he is thorough- ly at ease, and in the prodigal succession of lovely airs he revels in all the luxuriant richness of his voice with an evident sense of power and enjoyment in its manifesta- tion. In the more energetic passages, and in the recitatives, Signor Giuglini sang with equal strength and spirit, and always with the most finished elegance; and in the last act he startled the oldest inhahit- ant of the stalls into a helief that Ru- hini himself was here again, so wonder- fully did the transcendent quality of the voice, the style, and the expression, resem- lle the great Arturo of other days. Not to forego the privilege of criticism, we must, however, again hesitate a doubt of Signor Giuglinis falsetto, which, we con- fess, is not to our liking. Probably it has been little cultivated by a singer who can happily do without it so well; but in the Puritant the falsetto is indispensable, and we find Signor GiuglinVs somewhat weak and fiat in tone. Study and practice will, no doubt, amend this defect; but while we are critical, let us be p~rmitted to add that Signor Giuglini would do well to moderate a tendency to conventional gesticulation, and to restrain the scooping motion of his arms. These are trifles, perhaps, but in a dramatic artist so near to the promise of perfection they deserve to be noted and to he corrected. And the truculent .ltheneum says of the same singer in the same opera: Signor Giuglinis Arturo did not give ns a word to unsay of his singing as we judged it from hearing him in La Fa- vorita. His voice is delicious, his method is pure ; hut his feeling for his music seems sabservient to that for his voice and method. To ourselves he would be more welcome did he sing less in the vein of .N~arcissus; hut this may be individual fancy alone, for the public appears to havc accepted him as first favorite, and there can he no question that, with the exception of Signor Belletti, he is the only real singer who has been heard this year at Her .Mc~jestys Theatre. So one day, we may depend upon hear- ing Signor Giuglini in Irving Place. Of a new soprano, with a deliciously succulent name, there are also fair re- ports. The best thing at present to he done for Mdlle. Ortolani, who fills up the com- plement of Mr. Lumleys soprani for the season, and who appeared on Tuesday at Her Majestys Theatre in I Puritani, is. to state that she was as rapturously received, applauded, and encored as Madame Grisi was on the same hoards when the opera and the polacca (and the lady) were all young as rapturously, too, as any of Madame Grisis London successors in the part of Elvira; yet these have been only Mesdames Persiani, Sontag, Lind, and Bosio. Why, then, for the hour disturb a dream that hecause of this rapture the new lady must he as good an Elvira as they? There are cases in which it is lost labor to protest, to compare, and to analyze perhaps this may not provo the case with Mdlle. Ortolani in her second part, for which we shall wait. And another witness says: Mdlle. Ortolani, the d6butante, is an elegant lady, with a pleasing but not par- ticularly expressive face, a light and slender figure, and a refined demeanor. Not having what is called a good stage face, she is scarcely capable of impersona- ting the strongest emotions; but there is a sort of tearful prettiness, a beseeching gentleness in her voice and manner, that engages the preference of an indulgent public. Her voice may be strictly de- nominated a pure, unmixed soprano; it ranges exceedingly high, and is purest and sweetest in the highest notes, becoming feeble and thin in tone as it descends. Dryness and harshness are its besetting sins, and in pathetic moments an inclination to whine. Mdlle. Ortolani came heralded by no notes of admiration, and she has suc- ceeded in making a favorable impression. The tremulousness of her voice on the first evening was, we dare say, only occasional~ the flexibility, the brilliancy, and the facility of her vocalization, are sure to tell with increasing effect the more they are known; and we doubt not Mdlle. Or- tolani will gain in favor as the season pro- ceeds. Apparently, she will be heard to greater advantage in the concert-room than on the stage. 1857.] Our Window. 135 It is not so clear that we may depend upon hearing Signora Ortolani at the Academy. Surely our readers will be glad to hear the praise of an old favorite, the blithe Beneventano, always prompt and ready to pour out upon the little house in Astor Place, even more voice than was required. Beneventano was the realization of a beatified baritone, when he was encored in the Carlo .2 Ia gno chorus of Erneai. We are particularly happy to he able to say a hearty word of praise for Signor Beneventano, whom we may have seemed too little disposed to appreciate. On this occasion we shall not even take his legs in vain, hut pronounce a decided opinion that his Riccardo is, on the whole, an admirable performance. In the beautiful airs with which the part is studded, he sang with marked discretion, and a delicacy for which we were not prepared, and in the famous ,Suoni ice tromba his really noble voice, encouraged and excited by the alliance with Belletti, vibrated through the house with immense effect. If the duo was not audible at Bologna, it was powerful enough to shake the Austrian Empire to its base. We never heard it sung with more enthu- siasm or with more success. After the curtain had fallen, the audience insisted on its repetition, and the two singers vied with each other in the power and intensity with which they declaimed in unison, ringing out the Liberte like the tocsin of awakened Italy. At Milan Libertd would have been pronounced L~alta. New York has drawn an elephant, and cannot keep him in the back parlor. What shall be done with the Crystal Palace? It pleads for itself. It is the most beauti- ful building in New York. But what will you do with it? Like a princess born to a red republican, New York has always been perplexed with its lovely toy. The feeling that led to its erection was a foolish imitation of foreign enter- prise. Then it had a wet President to open it ; then Barnum inaugurated his fall- ing fortunes with it; then it was a great, desolate, beautiful hall; and now, like a blind royal Belisarius, it stands upon the top of Murray Hill, and asks an alms of sympathy and interest. Viewed from Our Window, it really seems as if the free and enlightened must confess they made a miscalculation in blowing the beautiful bubble of Murray Hill. They manage Worlds Fairs better in the Old World than in the New. They make the great ones lasting institutions, and, while we are wondering over the fate of our Crystal Palace, the London palace grows in- to a permanent popular resort at Sydenham. Then they have constant smaller ones. The last is open now in Manchester. It is not a collection of everything, but limits itself to works of art. In a broad interpre- tation, says the .fltheneum in a careful and elaborate notice, it is a vast epitome of art, ancient and modern, the best of its kind ever attempted. Everything is to see, and nothing to sell. Rich tapestries deck the walls; Yandykes and Holbeins bloom above us; cases of ivories and bronzes, each worth a kings ransom, are piled on either side of us ; trophies of Raphael ware, such as were heaped on the buffets of the Medici, delight our eyes on the right on the left, the red and black vases of Etruria have been disentombed to again delight the living. Gold and silver are crowded in vases and flagons, till we seem to have all the wealth of Manchester incarnate before our gaze. Gems and porcelain, gilded armor, statuary, swell into one vast diapason of art, that has taken nineteen centuries and more to think out, to hew out, to shape out, and to bring together. It is at once humiliating and encourag- ing to think how little of this great encyclo- pndia Pericles saw, and how little Raphael beheld. Behind one, lies all medieeval artbehind the other, all the climax and results of the renaissance of classical art and the rise of the romantic and platonic schools of thinking. What na*ion hut the English could let millions lie quiet in such luxuries? What provincial city butMan- chester would have desired, or could have got together, or would have wished for, such a sight? It is as much as to say, 0 brothers! we are weary of this spider- spinning, this weaving thin lilacs and blue- striped stuffs for the men of Ashantee weary of iron bars and ~uch materialities weary of ever-revolving wheels, and the jar and buzz of many-tiered factories. Give us finer results of a life; steel beaten Lo filagreeivory fretted thin as a dra 136 Our Window. gon-flys wingchina frail and white as the lilys belland, above all, pictures, those magic results of oil, and earth, and canvasthe grapple of Rubens, the cathe- dral twilight of Titian, the gentlehood of Vandyke, the saintliness of Correggio, the tenderness of Guido. The men of Man- chester wished, and lo! the Exhibition I For beauty, this third Exhibition can- not be compared with that of the Park or that on the Hill, at Sydenham; it has not the great trees of the one, nor the hanging flowers and sprinkling fragrance of the other. It is not so crystalline and luminous, nor so transparent, nor is it such a Dom- daniel of glass, as either. It is not musical with fountains, nor does it echo with the notes of birds. It is not an Indian bazaar nor a glass Louvre. Architectural art is scarcely visible, while at Sydenham it is the chief feature ; Greek art is only seen here re- flected through the minds of Gibson and Macdowellat Penge Park it rules the eye, and turns the medheval into splay re- ligious eccentricities. The three tubes with the red and white brick front, and the flat shed-like wings, are sensible and pleasing, but not astonishing: the great hall, with its long slip of skylight over- head, and the neat transept and the two side galleries, do not lead the eye up, but drive it down on the three lines of statues that hem you in with beauty on either hand. The busts on the side-walls, the cases of the Soulages and Bernal collec- tions, the water-color and engraving gal- leries, all lead up well to the great organ gallery at the west end. The bluish-gray coloring is clear and simple. The right- hand gallery is devoted to modern pic- tures, beginning with Hogarth and going downor rather up, as most thinkto Landseer, Ward, and other living worthies. The left-hand gallery is devoted to the Old Masters, beginning with the begin- ning, as Pantagruel wished the story told. Down the right and left side-walks of the great middle hall come the historical Por- trait Gallery, beginning with Richard the Second and coming down to our own times. This is Mr. Peter Cunninghams province, while Mr. Scharf puts the Old Masters into order, and Mr. Egg draws up the moderns in rank and file, as nearly chronologically as may be. The centre of the great hall is devoted to cases of metal work and ivories, china, armor, etc.; before these [July, comes the statuary, and here, too, is the Oriental court that Dr. Royle marshals, leaving Mr. Waring to the Soulages and Bernal collections, that are here too. Bronze vases, old chests and furniture are heaped about the glass-cases of smaller works and curiosities, and the galleries hold the photographs, engravings, and water-colors. Thus under one roof we see a complete epitome of art; we have the wayside block of marble, overgrown once with wild laurel, that some wandering DaAalus first toilsomely chipped into a fireside godthe rude picture that the Italian first called a saint and gilt and crownedthe iron shell of armor that by degrees grew a trophy of the engravers artthe beautiful burned earth that the Chinese first shaped and hardenedthe Indians pennyworth of ivory that an Italians lifetime turned into a casket worth its weight in jewels, the transforming, in fact, of a base thing, whether canvas, wood, steel, or clay, into a.glorified and more spiritual creation. So says John Bull, properly proud of his country, in the .6lthenceum, and adds the following account of some of the most striking contributions: Etty, whom Manchester may be said to have discovered, and which had the honor of fostering his genius, makes a splendid stand here. His women, with their voluptuous bosoms, raven hair, kill- ing eyes, spaced out with driving blue skies, and scarlet draperies, and fruit and jewels, shine out here like lamps amid the quieter works of lower-toned men. His Satyrs and Nymphs is gorgeous in its contrasts of brown and white skin. His Cleopatra on the Cydnus is a prodigal eastern galaxy of color, with its adoring slaves and the diving girls; of thought not much, but a prodigality of artful contrasts and compositionthe flying Cupids spoil it and turn it into mere allegory. Then there is the ~ a sort of Tom Moore fancy, and the Idle Lake, two people swimming in an oyster shell, and the Sirens, a fine imagination. Who can match his carnationshe the pink of painters? Wilkie is not so well represent- ed. There is, however, his Ratcatchers, Distraining for Rent, The Jews Harp, Guess my Name, and Blind Mans Buff. The Ratcatchersis a small diploma pic- ture, painted small because it was a gift. 1857.] Our Window. 137 The Distraining for Rent is beautiful in its expression of the varieties of grief, from petulant scolding to the sleepy torpor of a despair. The touch, fairy-like and silvery, super-delicate often, but always true, pre- cisc, cool, and sure. A few interesting pictures preserve the memory of Turner. Saltash, a deep- toned, wonderful piece of work, and a Sunrise on the Coast, with a white burn- ing sea and a blue film of haze, as delicious as if it had been distille~1 from the salvia blossom. To Turner a single pearl was a universe of color. ~Phillips has a portrait of Lord Thur- low, and Duncan the Entry of the Pre- tender into Edinburgh, ghastly and al- most putrid, as Scotch color generally is since Wilkies day, but brimful of charac- terthe barber frightened by the rush of the Lochaber axe-man, the old lord cheer- in~x, the pretty and hooded girls, arc all excellent. Constables dewy, speckled, shiny im- pasto, is well seen in a picture of his here, with a dull-colored rainbow and an earthy look about the grass. Mr. Mulreadys pleasant Goldsmith feeling is shown in his Barbers Shop, a heavy black picture, almost a caricature ; his Forgotten Word, which, below Ettys Jean of Arc, and his Mercy interceding for the Vanquished, perhaps the finest thing the York man ever did, are as refreshing as spring blue sky after winter rain. It is a pity Mr. Mul- readys boys should all wear cinnamon- colored jackets, though it may be good for color. His Traveling Druggist is a good example of his larger style ; the sub- ject is good, and the sick boys face excel- lent, though we wish he had been younger; but Mr. Mulready generally paints boys about fourteen. Here, too, we see his Haymaking, that is, just a bit of one of Tennysons Idyls, but dress and color a little sham. Of Sir E. Landseer we have a splendid specimen, Theres life in the Old Dog yet, a low-toned picture, but such a picture, such a block of a mans life and mind in it. The poor dog with a glazing eye and feeble gaze, the dead deer, the momentariness of the shock, the depth of the chasm, the gray slabs of table rock, the eager and business-like look of the gillie raise this picture to the highest rank. The visitor would do well, too, to compare Sir E. Landseers Ratcatching with Wil- kies, and observe the difference of style. The Bloodhound is like a line from an epic, it is so robust in its painting. Of Mr. Friths grace, and witty, epi- grammatic style of painting, now courtly as Chesterfield, now smart as a French grisdte, there are some excellent specimens a frame of pretty faces and The high- waymau.~ Scene, the interior of a stage- coach; at the window, dark against the sky, looks in an ugly highwayman in a black mask with a suspicious-looking hole in it over the left temple. The barrel of his pistol shows what he wants. On one side, a pretty woman whitens and faints; at her side, a bragging officer betrays un- mistakable fear, in spite of his sword; on the right is terror in other shapes. Through the window we see a lonely common, and a thief swinging from a gibbet. Never was story told better. Mr. Walliss Death of Chatterton and Mr. Goodalls Village Festival are too well known to heed praise at our hand; nor need we say much of Mr. Leslies Death of Queen Catharine or his famous scene of Uncle Toby and the Widowthe last a delicious contrast of guile and innocence. The color in this picture is not, as is too common in Mr. Leslies works, purply and decomposed. The Pre-Raphaelites are not numerous, and we hope not from any jealousy. Mr. Millais has the twilight Autumn Leaves, and Mr. Holman Hunt his Claudio and Isabella, the scene from The Two Gentle- men of Verona, The Idle Shepherd, and, we believe, a Scene from the Holy Lan~~~ His almost fanatical earnestness, his reli- gious labor, his marvelous finish, and ex- quisite yet speckled color may be seen here to great advantage. There is a great want of landscapes, perhaps owing to the choice depending upon one whose ambition lies in figures. Some Lees and Linnels stand first among the few we see. We should like to have seen specimens of the rising Pre-Raphael- ite landscape-paintersMr. Inebbold, for instance, whose exquisite finish we have often praised. We saw no Creswick, and men of lesser note should have had a place. We had forgot a fine Ferry by Mr. Danby, very luminous and calming. The Raphael tapestry, for which Ra- phael executed his cartoons, bright still with needle-work colors, adorn the walls 138 Our Window. [July, of the side-gallery. The dilettante will have a rich treat, too, in the miscellaneous cases full of cinque-cento work of the costliest and most delicate kind. Here is one of fine locksmiths work of the best French and Italian periods. This Venetian coffer is covered with scrolls and leaves in low relief; the handle is partly of chiseled bronze. It is such a chest as Philip of Burgundy may have kept his deeds and blank charters in, and his red canceled ones, with the seals cut off, too. It seems a writing-desk. Beyond it is a chiseled lock, adorned with niches and small sta- tues of Christ, St. John, and the Virgin. Who hut a fairy blacksmith could have shaped it ; for it has the crumbly prettiness of a cork model? The statuettes and cano- pies are superhumanly small and cleanly wrought ; and here is another like it, but still richer, with flamboyant perforated workthe side-panels filled with rich tracery, and the canopies crocheted, pierced through with openings no larger than a needle could makeand yet wrought out hy rude hands, that could slice a coat of mail open at a hlow. Then come ruder wooden locks, with coarse keys; and then, for contrast, keys of the Medicean period, with the how formed of figures of sirens, and with grace and expression, too, though so small; then there are gilded nymphs for watch-keys, and keys with the wards as fine as the teeth of a comb, astonishing you with the feeling of perverted and transmuted material of steel turned to ivory or horn. The chocolate-colored Wedgwoods we may class with the miscellaneous china. Agate ware, Peruvian pottery, brown Tygs tazzas, snuff-hoxes, crowd upon the eye with a conflicting richness of colors leaf-shaped dishes, nautilus-shaped tureens, terra-cotta vases, gold reflex water-bottles, help to fill one case, and make a rich show, that Palisy would have crawled to Co- logne on hands and knees to see. Here is evidently a Mecca to which the feet of all our Summer-pilgrims abroad will surely turn. The English Government has abandoned the search for Sir John Franklin. But Lady Franklin will not believe that her hushand may not he found, alive or dead. She asked for the loan of the Resolute, which our Government returned to the English but. failing to obtain it, she proposed to undertake the heroic service alone. Many eminent geographical and naval men sup- port her faith as well as her hope by the public expression of their opinion, and copi- ous pecuniary contrihutions to the Lady Franklins Search-fund. Sir Roderick Murchison gives a hundred pounds, Cap- tain Barrow twenty-five, Rear-Admiral Beaufort, fifty, the Hon. Mrs. Fairholme, a hundred and fifty, and many others large sums. Lady Franklin has purchased the steamer- yacht Fox, the property of the late Sir Richard Sutton, and has given orders to have her strengthened for Arctic service. She will proceed to t~e Arctic Seas, viLi Barrows Straits, during the present month of July, under the command of Captain MClintock, who will endeavor to reach the mouth of the Fish river, carefully examining the land and sea in that lo- cality. We find the following authentic account of this enterprise, in which all Americans must feel a peculiar interest: The plan of Lady Franklins Arctic Expedition is now arranged. A glance at any recent map of the Arctic regions shows that nearly the whole area east and west of the outlet of the Fish river has been swept by Government searching expedi- tions. Apart, then, from the fact that Esquimaux reports point to a very limited locality where the great Arctic mystery lies concealed, we are warranted in hoping that a search within an area emhracing not more than 370 miles of coast, may be rewarded hy the discovery of the Erehus and Terror. Capt~ MClintock proposes to make his way down Prince Regents Inlet, and thence through Bellots Strait to the field of search; or, should the ice permit, to proceed direct to it by going down Peel Sound, which he has good reasons for believing to be a strait. If prevented by the ice from passing through Bellots Strait, or going down Peel Sound, he will abandon the idea of taking his ship through these channels, and, leaving her in safety in Prince Regents Inlet, will proceed to search for the Erehus and Terror, by sledging parties, so successfully used in the late expedition, in conducting which Capt. MClintock particularly distinguished himself. 1857.] Our Window. 139 We re6 et to say, that a strong memo- rial, rucently transmitted from the United States, praying our Admiralty to send the Resolute out on a final searching expedi- tion, has failed to arouse official sympathy with a cause now stirring all England. This is the more surprising as the work which remains to be done is extremely small, and Arctic experience shows that the probable risk is slight. The rate of mortality of all the Arctic Expeditions since 1818 (exclusive of that of the missing Expedition) is less than one and a half per cent. Sir Charles Wood, therefore, as the oracle of the Admiralty, has no foundation for saying that he does not feel justified in exposing to the risks inseparable from such explorations the lives of further offi- cers and men. Previous searching expe- ditions, which were necessarily dispatched to unknown regions, have, as we have seen, been singularly fortunate in regard to the slight mortality, and the proposed Expedition, which will have the advantage of being within easy reach of the large d~pdts of stores and provisions at Beechey Island and Port Leopold, will certainly not be attended with greater risk than those which have preceded it. Great sci- entific interest attaches, moreover, to Lady Franklins final search, as it ~vill be carried on in the neighborhood of the North Mag- netic Pole. Let us, then, hope that the appeal of Lady Franklin will meet a ready response. I have cherished the hope, says Lady Franklin, in her letter to Lord Palmerston, in common with others, that we are not waiting in vain. Should, how- ever, that decision unfortunately throw upon me the responsibility and the cost of sending out a vessel myself, I beg to assure your lordship that I shall not shrink either from that weighty responsibility or from the sacrifice of my entire available fortune for the purpose, supported as I am in my convictions by such high authorities as those whose opinions are on record in your lordships hands, and by the hearty sym- pathy of many more. Surely, then, I may plead that a careful search be made for any possible survivor that the bones of the dead be sought for and gathered together that their buried records be un- earthed, or recovered from the hands of the Esquimaux; and above all, that their lsst written words, so precious to their bereaved families and friends, be saved from destruction. A mission so sacred is worthy of a Government which has grudged and spared nothing for its heroic soldiers and sailors in other fields of warfare, and will surely be approved by our gracious Queen, who overlooks none of her loyal subjects suffering and dying for their coun- trys honor. This final and exhausting search is all I seek in behalf of the first and only martyrs to Arctic discovery in modern times, and it is all I ever intend to ask. Who can fail to cry God-speed! Do you know, though the ointment might have been sold and given to the poor, it was better to waste it upon those precious feet! MATTHEW ARNOLD, the poet, of wbom we have more than once spoken in the .Mentlily, has been appointed Professor of Poetry at the University of Oxford. He is a scholar, a poet, a gentleman, and worthily sustains the honor of the name he has inherited from his father, Dr. Arnold of Rugby, the historian. It is an appoint- ment in which every lover of literature will heartily sympathize. In our last number we regaled our read- ers with a savory ballad of 77, and this month we have another, singularly suit- able for the season, although a little pre- revolutionary. THE REPULSE. A BALLAD. In 1693, The Charter of our embryo state Was deemed a broad, protective shield, As potent as a bond of fate. It bore a froret, the like of which No proud crusaders ever knew, Where desperate blows from haughty foes Fell harmless as the summer dew. The king, though claiming right divine, Must yet succumb to public will: He might be strong, but still would find That chartered rights were stronger still Wherefore, the stern, high-minded men Who laid fair freedoms corner-stone, Were prompt to peril life and limb Against encroachments from the throne. So, when the Royal Duke of York His pompous emissary sent To take command of all our troops, And thus the Charter circumvent, That parchment shield was found to wield A power no duke could set aside, That never bent to Parliament, And which no king could override. 140 Our Window. This fact caused young Connecticut To battle stoutly for her ridsts And, when tall Colonel Fletc~fser game, He saw some unexpected sights. Our notions did not square with his, Which caused an internecine war, That ended only with the flight Of this ill-starred ambassador. And yet, pursuant to his wish, The men were mustered under arms; And stalwart troops they were to see, With sturdy limbs and horny palms. Their captain, Wadsworth, was a man Of slender build and modest mien, But who a loftier spirit bore Than many a belted knight, I ween. The line was formed. And Bayard then, In voice sonorous, loud, and clear, Began; but, eer a page was read, No word could any listener hear. Beat drums ! the irate captain cried, And drum it was, with right good will, Until one mi~ht as well have tried To hearken in a fulling mill. Silence ! the colonel thundered forth And straight the drummers ceased their play;. Till Bayard raised his voice again, When Wadsworth shouted Drum, I say! Silence, you rebels ! shrieked the chief The dauntless captain answered drum And drumsticks flew till Fletcher ceased, And then the music, too, was dumb. The little captains spunk was up While Fletchers face grew red with rage, To find his aid was baffled thus In reading the initial pa~e. Stand hack ! the fearless soldier cricd, As Fletcher glared with looks of fury; Another word, and this good sword, By Jove! shall let the dayli~ht through ye! lie did stand buck; and, hot with wrath, Turned on his heel to quit the ground; For well he wor the captains words Were something more than empty sound. His cocked hat in the distance loomed, His angry voice sank low and lower, Until his coat-tails disappeared Behind the neighboring tavern door. And thus the chief, who warrant held From one who royal duke was dubbed, In presence of a Yankee crowd XVas most incontinently snubbed. Discomfited he stalked away, Pursued by much derisive laughter, And harbored in his ear a flea Of largest size, for some time after. In gallant trim the troops moved on, With lofty ste p ,to Court-house Square, Where Captain Wadsworth made a speech That stirred each soldiers heart and hair. Then, with three cheers for chartered rights, And three for their unsullied flag, They filed away, as fife and drum Struck up the vigorous double drag. [July, The heirs of that determined band, Our Governors Guards, are living yet; And the same spirit nerves their arms That nerved the men whom Fletcher met: Bear witness each election day, When their tight-gaitered legs we see March to the tune their fathers marched, In 1693. It seems we are all in the wrong about Toby. Toby was neither a valet nor a man Friday, but a sailor and adventurer like all others. We have been put right by the following communication from the veritable Toby. It is, indeed, a most per- plexing question for ourselvesfor how if somebody else should claim to be the original Toby? Nayhow if some other Herman should suddenly claim to be the original Melville! There is no foreseeing the end of such doubts and controversies. To the Editor: In the April number of Putnam, I saw an article on our authorsamong others Herman Melville is spoken ot~ As I am the veritable Toby of which he wrote in Typee, I would like to correct an error which man y have fallen into respecting myself. I am often spoken of as Melvilles valet, his man Friday, etc., and hy some as a myth. Now that I exist is true, and the book Typee is true, but I was not Herman Melvilles valet, man Friday, or anything of the sort. I stood on the same footing with Melville. We both shipped as foremast hands on board a whale ship, in one of the whaling ports in Massa- chusetts, and from there made the romantic trip from which he wrote his Typee. I was his companion from the time of our enter- ing on board the whale on the Marquise islands, as related by him. self in Typee. A friendly communication exists between us, and I presume it is amus- ing to him to see Tohy spoken of as his valet. Amid all the summer reading on green lawns under spreading trees, there will hardly be a more exquisitely melodious and melancholy strain than the love-song of George Darley, which we insert for the benefit of all who are, who will be, or who have been, lovers. Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lulled by the faint breezes sighing through her hair! Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers Breathed to my sad lute amid the lonely air? Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming 1857.] Our Window. 141 To wind round the willow-banks that lure him from above 0, that in tears, from my rocky prison streaming, I, too, could glide to the bower of my love! Ab, where the woodbines, with sleepy arms, have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mates call in the forests far away! Come, then, my bird! for the peace thou ever bearest, Still heavens messenger of comfort to me Come, this fond bosom, my faithfulest, my fairest, Bleeds with its death-woundhut deeper yet for thee Punch is the wittiest and freshest critic of society in our literature. It is the type of the best of the contem- porary novels of society. To read it, from week to week, is like turning over the portfolio of studies from which the authors are going to paint their great novels. Lately we find something so apposite to American society as well as to English, that we quote it, for its good- humor and sharp, just sarcasm, for the be- nefit of all sufferers by this dreadful social institution of callin,, : Mn. PuxonWhat holds socIety to- gether? Mutual services, acts of kindness done in moments of need or sorrow, self- interest, the pleasure of conversation, the love of scandal, weariness of ourselves, en- joyment of the company of others, or mere instinctive gregariousness? None of these, so far as I can gather from my experiences as a married man, and a London householder. Society here seems to me to be built up of pasteboard a veritable house of cards. Nine-tenths of the social intercourse of this metropolis appears to be carried on either as a solemn and costly ceremonial, or as a dreary penance. Dinners, routs, halls, breakfastswed- ding and othersbelong to the first, or cere- monial order of social rites. Calling is the principal form of social penance. It is against this penance I wish to pour out my feelings. It is only married men who know at what cost of time, money, and temper this penance is performed. A bachelors oalls are seldom penal. Your bachelor, if he ever makes calls, does it because he likes it. What more natural than that Jack Easy, on his stroll from the Club to the Park, should drop in of an afternoon on pretty Mrs. Bellairs in May Fair? The chances are ten to one he will find Mrs. Bellairs at home, for he knows her hours, and wants to see her. And he is certain to come in for a bright face, a pretty morn- ing-dress, an elegant little boudoir, and a lively halt-hours gossipwith, perhaps, a cup of tea, at the end of itJack has treated himself to a pleasure. He called with that object. Mrs. BellaIrs will have half-a-dozen such calls, this afternoon, most of them from her male acquaintance. The ladies purse their lips, when Mrs. Bell- airs is mentioned. She is too agreeable. She has flung off the ceremonies, and re- fuses to perform the penances of society. Her dinners are unpretending and propor- tioned to her kitchen and her establishment. She does not swell her household with green-grocers, or have her entde3 from the pastry-cooks. When you call, as I have said ,you find her at home. She has ar- ranged her house and ways for enjoyment, and not as if for the discharge of a painful duty. Hence, perhaps, the undeniable fact, that she counts, in her circle, three bachelors for one wedded-pair. The mar- ried couples you do meet at her house are apt to be young ones, and of the uncere- monious or off-hand kind, who take life as if it concerned themselves more than their neighbors. Women, too, have their non-penal calls. When two young ladies for ex- ampledear friendsmeet to exchange patterns or experiencesto talk over the triumphs and trials of last nights ball to compare notes as to husbands, and house-keepingto bewail the backslidings of butlers, the contrariness of cooks, or the high-flyings of housemaids, I do not doubt that they really enjoy themselves. I can readily imagine two vicious old maids, keenly relishing a good go in at the reputation or cricumstances of their friends. I can conceive their bitter pleas- ure in tearing to pieces some fair young fameor in routing out some grim skele- ton from its closet in the house of a com- mon acquaintance ; or in letting loose from its bag some cat, likely to run about freely, and to bite and scratch a great many people in the neighborhood. 142 Our Window. [July, There is enjoyment in a call on an artist in his studio, provided you know him well enough to rummage his port- folios, or turn his canvases from the wall while he continues at work. Unless you are on these terms with him, you have no business to interrupt an artist, except on invitation, and on ceremonial or penal occasions; as, for instance, when Podgers, A. R. A., has expressed in writing the pleasure it will give him to see you for in- spection of his pictures intended for the Academy on the 3rd, 4th, or 5th of April. That is one of the penal performances. If you go, you must make one of a shoal of people, who flock into the place on each others heels the whole day through, most of them knowing nothing of art. The few who do, are deharred by politeness from speaking their mind on the works before them, where they cannot honestly approve; but they are all pouring out the same commonplaces of compliment to Podgerss face, and venturing on shys of criticism whenever the poor mans hack is turned, while poor Podgers is beaming about, full of himself, feeding on honey and butter, and believing all the com- pliments sincere in spite of his better judgmentso sweet is praisetill the Times comes out, the day after the Private View, and omits all mention of Podgers, or damns him with faint praise, or cuts him up, perhaps, root and branch. But the real penance of penances is that social performance called leaving cards. Every day, when I come home from my office, I find my hall-table littered with these pieces of pasteboard. There is a physiognomy about them. Take the newly-married card, for instance, on which Mr. and Mrs. Coohiddy always figure in couples, a sort of connubial four-poster among the pack; or Captain Blunderbores cardthe most tiny and lady-like square of glazed pasteboard, with letters so small, they almost require the help of a magnify- ing glass to make them out; or Lady- Mangelwurzels solid and substantial ticket, heavy as her lad~ysbips jointure, the letters square as her bank-account, and as firmly impressed on the paper as her ladyships dignity and importance on her mind. Here is the pasteboard representative of lively Mrs. Maraboutlimp, light, spider-charac- tered, engraved in Paris; and here medhevally-minded Mr. Pyxon has stamped himself in Gothic characters as difficult to decipher as the directions to strangers in the New Houses of Parliament. But what is the meauing of this pack of pasteboard from the Juggernauts? Why has Mr. Juggernaut left two cards, and Mrs. Juggernaut two cards, and Miss Juggernaut two cards, and Mr. Frederick Juggernaut two cards? And why are they all turned up at one corner? The Juggernauts are the most determined doers of social penance I know. This shower of cards is meant to represent a visit from every individual member of their family to every individual member of mine. Well, if it have saved us from an affliction of the Juggernauts in person, let us be thank- ful. These pasteboard proxies are blessed inventions, after all. There could he only one thing better: to get rid of the printed pasteboardeven as we have got rid of the human buckram it represents. Why call upon each otherO my brethren and sistersyou who bore meyou whom I boreeven in pasteboard! Why not drop it altogetherand live apart? People who care for each other will find time and opportunity to meet, I will answer for it. Why should those who do not pine in a self-inflicted and superfluous suffering? Think what you are exposing yourselves and me to. I or my wife might be at home when you call. We might all have to endure half-an-hour of each othera constrained, unhappy half-hour, of baffled attempts at keeping our mask from slipping on one side, and showing the yawns, and fiat melancholy behind them. Then this penance is not merely pain- ful in itself. It costs time and money. One morning in every three weeks or so, I find my wife at her writing-table, struggling with the Red-Book and the Map of London. She is making out her lists of calls, she tells me. These lists are in duplicate. One is for her own guidance, the other for the driver of the Brougham, which is hired for the days penance. There is a sovereign for that, including the tip to the driver. Of course, she cant be expected to make her calls in a cab. I once, out of curiosity, accompanied my unhappy wife on one of these penal rounds of hers. I never saw more suffer- ing, of various kinds, condensed into six hours. First, there is the consideration of 1857.] Our Window. 143 the routeby what line the greatest num- ber of calls could he got through in the least time, with the greatest economy of ground. This settled with the driver, be- gins the painful process itself, in Tyhurnia let us sayor Beigravia, or the regions around Bedford Squareif one dare own to acquaintances in that quarter, Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. You reach No. 1 on your list: a pull at the check-string: ten to one the driver has overshot the door: he turns round: descends: knocks: the door is opened: Mrs. Harris not at ~ course: your cards are dropped: drive on to No. 2: driver has a difficulty about the street: this you discuss and finally settle with him through the front window: drive a hun- dred yards: check-string again; knock: door opened: not at home: card dropped as before: then on to No. 3: and so the weary rQutine goes on from one oclock till six. Of course, there are episodes of peculiar dreariness. Sometimes Mrs. Har- ris is at home, and being at home, has neglected to say that she is not. If you bave rashly asked the formal question, you must go in, and the pastehoard per- formance is turned into the real penance of a bonafide call. Or your coachman is stupid, and keeps turning up wrong streets: or cannot read, and invariably stops at the wrong numbers: or is obstinate, and has a theory of his own as to the order in which the houses on your list are to be taken, and so forth. The worst of all, as I have already said, is when the people called upon hap- pen to be at home. This chance has to he faced at every house, and adds seriously to the days unhappiness. I shall not soon forget my wifes face of consternation when, on dropping her curds at the address of our dreary old friend, Mrs. Boreham, who is at once deaf, curious, and ill-na- turedthe servant who took the cards, instead of shutting the door as usual, ad- vanced to the carriage Good Gracious! exclaimed my wife, in a voice of dismay, Shes at home I Mrs. Boreham at home? she inquired the next moment, with the blandest smile. No, maam, was the answer; but she told me to say, if you called, she was going to Brighton for a month. God bless her! rapped out my wife. The footman thought the ejaculation one of pious affection. Under this impression he might well look astonished. Had he understood the words in their true sense as an utterance of thankfulness that his mistress was out of the wayhe would, probably, have said Amen, for Mrs. Bs hand is heavy on her household. I have never joined my wife in a day of visiting- penance since that morning. But I am always paying bills for lots of cards, and the Broughain forms a serious item in our quarterly accounts. But after all it is not so much the waste of money and time that irritates one as the hollowness of the business. If these lying pasteboards must he deposited, why not dispatch them by post, like trades- mens circulars? I hear that some fine ladies do send round their maids on this penance. I applaud them for it. I have serious thoughts of insisting on my wifes employing the crossing-sweeperwho does our confidential errands extraordinaryto deliver her cards. He is a most trust- worthy man, and would be thankful for the days work, for which he might be fitted out respectably in one of my old suits. This groan, I feel, ought, by rights, to have come not from me, but from my wife. It is the poor women, especially, who have to do this penance. But we men suffer from it in twenty ways, besides the direct ones of money out of pocket, and a wifes time abstracted from home and home duties. The huge lie it embodies works all through society. This pasteboard acquaintance invites and is invited. To it I owe the splendid dullness of many dinners every seasonthe heat and weari- ness of many crushes under the name of drums, routs, concerts, and so forththe necessity of bowing and smiling to, and pro- fessing a sort of interest in the concerns of hundreds of people I dont care a rap for. Tuanks to it, in short,I perform an uncount- ed number of journeys in that prison-van I have already alluded to, in whose stifling cells we most of us pass so much of our unhappy lives, on our way, self-condemned that we are, to hard labor on the Social Tread-mill. When shall we have the courage to put down this instrument of torture, as we have 144 Our Window. [July, 1837. had the good sense to abolish its infinitely less heart-breaking prison-equivalent? I am, Air. Punch, Yours, respectfully, A ~ The death of Alfred de Musset reminds us, as we look from Our Window, of soft spring nights in Paris, wheu Madame Al- lan played his proverbes at the Fran~ai.s, with exquisite brace ; and, more sadly, it adds another to the list of talent early gone astray and lost. The following notice is from the London Leader, and touches with the gentleness of friendship the frailties of genius: In the midst of a dry heap of diplo- matic and political news in the Times of last Tuesday, appeared the following short paragraph M. Alfred de Musset, one of the youngest and most distinguished members of the French Academy, died yesterday, after a short illness. Two paces of the vilest earth are all that remains even to a King when once the breath is out of his body; and two, or at the most three, lines are all that can be spared to a poor poeta mere child of grace and genius, whose lamp of life is shattered, and whose light in the dust lies deadwheu the movements of a Grand Duke and of the Cr~dit Mobilier have columns at their service. Nevertheless, as it is the fashion of Courts to go in mourn- ing for their great ones, we may be allowed in this place to offer, from beyond the sea, the last trihute of respect to the memory of a poet. Alfred de Musset was one of those children of a summer star, who lose their way early in this busy world of harsh and cold realities; who drain the wine of life with fevered lips to the very dregs, exhaust the bitter and the sweet of love, and awake from disenchantment to despair. His last volume of minor poems was published in 1850, and in those few pages there was nothing that bore a later date than 3942. To him, as to many other greater men, the reward of fame came late. For many years he had been treated by the serious critics as a trifler; and although his ontes d.Espagne et dItalie, his Spectacle dens un Fauteuji, and his exquisite lyrics were the delight of women and of young men; although his life had enough of romance in it to be interesting, it was not until about ten years ago that the singular suc- cess of one of his Proverbes (Le Caprice) gave a sudden lustre to his name. Two or three more of his Proverbes were sub- sequently performed at the Fran~aisIl ne faut jurer de rien, Ii faut quune porte soit ouverte ou ferme~e, and his dramatic pieces, La Quenoujile de Barberine, Les Caprices de Marianne with a success belonging rather to the poet than to the dramatist, as the failure of the drama, ./lndre del Sarto, a fine subject wasted, clearly proved. It was one thing to com- pose with a diamond pen a Proverbe, and another to construct a drama of sustained interest and passion. We incline to be- lieve, that it will he for his minor poems that Alfred ile Musset will he remembered. In these, the passionate warmth of color, the reckless elegance, the mocking grace, the almost feminine languor and inconstancy of humor smiling through tears, are in- finitely charming. The influence of Byron upon the young countryman of Voltaire is easily perceived, but enough remains of individuality to give the poet a personal rank. His election into the Academy was especially remarked at the time, as it was almost a single instance of pure literature being admitted by the disbanded senators who fill the benches of that august body, and conspire in choice language against the Order that is not of their making. No doubt, his literary title to academic elec- tion was a sound one. A romanticist by habit and association, he was always a rigid classicist in theory. But poor Al- fred de Musset was not at home in the Palais Mazarin; and, indeed, wherever he appeared of late, it was as a ghostly visitant from some d6braill6 world. His way of life had become perplexed in the extreme; silent and shattered was that fragile lute On whose harmonious strings The breath of heaven did wander, a bright stream Once fed with many-voiced waves, a dream Of youth which night and time have quenched forever! Peace be with him! As he wrote of a brother poet of Italy, Leopardi. Lheure derni~re vint, tant de fois appel~e. Tn la vis arriver sans crainte et sans remord, Et tu goStas enfin le charme do la mart.

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Putnam's monthly magazine of American literature, science and art. / Volume 10, Issue 56 Emerson's magazine and Putnam's monthly G.P. Putnam & co. New York Aug 1857 0010 056
Lake George 145-162

PUTNAMS MONTIILY. YOL. X.AUGUST, 1857.NO. LYI. LAKE GEORGE. HE --waters of Lake George are so pure and beautiful, that the Indians called it Horicon, or silver water and, as it stretches away from Lake Champlain, they also named it Canideri- oit, or the tail of the lake. But the pious French Jesuits, who had settled upon the shores of Champlain, and used the VOL. x.1O silver water in haptism, called it San Sacrament, the lake of the holy sacra- ment. Then came the loy~l English, and called it Lake George. It is a sweet Saxon name, and, on the whole, we are fortunate; for another king, with another name, might have sat upon the throneJeremiah, or Thaddeus, or Abimelech, for instance, or worse. Of course you have been, or will go, to Lake George. And of course you will compare it with Como, and the Swiss lakes, and the English and Scotch lakes. But it is not necessary to do so. All sheets of water among mountains have a general resemblance; and when, as in the Tyrol, great glaciers lean down the precipices from ofF the 146 awful peaks, and lap the dark, deep waters, there is a solemn grandeur of impression, which lasts as long as life. But Lake George is all loveliness, and beauty, and repose. It seems to have been unavoidable, to call it silver water, or Lake Sacrament. A summer benediction breathes over it. If you want rest and peace, with sweet air, capital fare, and enough crinoline and kid-glove to keep your gentility in coun- tenance, turn away from Saratoga, and slip up to Lake George. Or if, after the rude grandeur of the White Hills, you wish a lovely contrast, slide along the railroad to Lake Champlain, and then glide along that lake, and float upon Horicon. Then you can go on to Saratoga, and emancipate yourself from nature entirely. On some lovely summer morning, bid adieu to the belles in ravishing neg1ig~s, to the beaux in coats comme ii faut, to the bowling, the billiards, the lake-din- ners, the music of the afternoon, the Lake George. [Aug., hop of the evening, the cigar, and the cobbler of midnight; leave these at Saratoga, to find as many of them as you please at Lake George, You step out of the garden of the United States into the cars. An hour of rattling and puffing, and pleas- ant level landscape, brings you to the Morean station. Get a seat upon the top of the stage; and be sure to have a poet on one side of you, and a wit on the other; then bowl along through a wild country over a good plank road, peering through the trees, glancing over the glittering fields of grain, re- joicing in the bright summer air and your liberty, until you rein up at Glenns Falls, seventeen miles from Saratoga. These falls are a rocky pass in the Hudson, about fifty-five miles from Al- bany. The whole descent is some seventy feet; but the slope is very long, and jagged with bold rocks; and the water pours, and foams, and gur- gles, and seethes in bubbly whirpools at 1857.] Lake George. 147 the base, and the noise of the rushing seems to cool the summer hour, in which you slip and clamber about the stones. Cooper loved this place, and it is mentioned in some of his novels; which particular ones, of course, the discerning and remembering reader re- calls, and quotes the passages to his friend, the wit, as they all climb again to the top of the stage. rrhen under a tree you are shown where Jane MCrea was murdered. Ask no more. Is it not enough, that under a tree, by savage Indians, a girl was slain? In that bright summer hour of liberty, with the music of last You descend toward the lake, and behold the village of Caidwell. The village of CaIdwelI is not beautiful, but it is only a kind of convenience for visitors to the lake. You have nothing to do with it; your business is at the back of the hotel upon the water. The village was named, in 1810, from a gentleman who owned a great deal of land in the vicinity. It might have been named a hundred years ago, for it is a most venerable baby of a town; very small, but very old in the face. It never grows, and has no occasion to grow. The commerce of Lake George will not he extensive; the pleasure travel is only a summer episode in the life of the town: it offers no special nights Saratoga dance beating in your memory, and the moon getting ready to rise over Lake George before you, do you wish more material for ro- mance? If you do, look! There is Horicon; there is the Lake of the Sacrament. It lies like a floor of azure air among soft hills; the skittle-ground of fairies. nymphs, elves, and water-spirits. The first impression of Lake George has all this tenderness and delicacy. The poet at your side will murmur, Let us call it Lake of the Yirgin,~and the delighted wit will surely exclaim, How beautiful it is~ by George ! advantages or attractions to settlers. It has no shops as good as Stewarts; the opera is indifferentfrogs in the early spring, and tree-toads later; and the youth of the neighborhood fancy that New York offers a more promising career for young men. It is, in fact, not a ro[nantic town more decidedly not a romantic town than most other towns; and yet, which of us, when he has heard in his hope- ful and inexperienced years of Cald~ well, Lake George, has riot had a vision of beauty floating before his fancy? And here we were right; onI the in mance is entirely in the Lak George, and not in the CaldwelL 148 Lake George. [Aug., So now survey the lake. It is thirty-three miles long, and dotted with islands. The local tra- dition, that inveterate Munchausen that invests every famous place, in- forms us, that there are three hundred and sixty-five islands in the lake. We might believe the story, if local tra- dition only had the ingenuity of va- riety in its fabrications. It says with the same assurance, that there are three hundred and sixty-five drives in certain places, a road for every day in the year, and, so forth, until local tradition has made itself a common laughing-stock. The greatest breadth of the lake is four miles; but two miles is the average width. It is some two hundred and twenty-five feet above Lake Cham- plain, and about three hundred above tide-water. The bottom of the lake is a plain of yellow sand; and so trans- parent is the water, that you can look down fifty feet, as you lean over the side of the boat in which you seem to hang suspended between a rarer and denser atmosphere. For the air among the mountains of Lake George shares the purity of its water. Far across, upon the shore, you see what seems to be not half a mile away, but it is really more than the mile; and moun- tains which lie just beyond you, and which you are going to skip up. to en- joy the view, laugh your fatigue to scorn, long before you have reached their feet. You must learn betimes that there is witchery in this air and water, and if you would view Lake George aright, yoa need not visit it by the pale moon- light, but you must give yourself up to the spirit of moonlight, ~hich is a spirit of romance and quiescence. If the mountains woo you, you must under- stand that they will toy with you, and coquette as never belle coquetted. They will wrap themselves in mist, and drench you with it; they will lead you into pit- falls and caves, and break your legs over stones and stumps; they will heat you to a fever, and fret you to a fury, as you pursue them; they will make you vow never to trust mountains again; never to carry game-pouch or portfolio with any hope of recompense; they will even infect you with doubts of their beauty, and cause you to shout in mockery at the romantic fool Endymion, who loved the moon, and you, the ridi- culous Smith, who loved a mountain; when, suddenly, in the very crisis of your parched despair, the great moun- tain will toss a trickling nh of perfect water at your feet, and, as you stumble, blinded and weary in the midst, lift the vapor gently before your eyes, and show you the soft, shadowy perspective of land and water, the plains of heaven, the rosy reaches of eternal peace, and you will forget your pain, your anger, and your weariness; you will repent of your impatient fury, and love mountains forever. Fort George stands upon a little hill, about half way between the shores at the head of the lake, and, perhaps, a quarter of a mile from the water. It is built of a dark limestone found near by. This fort has no especial historical association; but its neighbor, Fort Wil- liam Henry, half a mile off, has a melancholy interest. In 1757, Lord London, Governor of Virginia, was the British commander-in- chief in North America. He was op- posed by the Marquis de Montcalm, the French Generalissimo, and, two years afterward, Wolfes courtly foe at Quebec. The French had planted themselves at Ticonderoga, at the junc- tion of Lake George and Lake Cham- plain, and, as the lakes were the chief channel of communication between Canada and the provinces, it was of the greatest importance to each party to hold them. So the able Montcalm re- solved to capture Fort William Henry, which was held by the English, at the head of Lake George; and, leaving Ticonderoga on St. Patricks Eve, he suddenly appeared before Fort William Henry on St. Patricks Day, in the morning, of the year 1767. The able Montcalm burned several boats and buildings, but the British did not yield; and, having lost the day, but not at all disheartened, he fell back upon Ticonderoga. General Webb, whose headquarters were at Fort Edward, several miles from the Lake, was chief in command of the British forces at the Lake, and seems to have been a worthy subordin- ate of Loudon, lazy, contemptuous, cow- ardly, perhaps, and certainly careless. He came to Fort William Henry with an escort, commanded by Major Put- nama name that was to be made famous in the military history of the countryand Webb sent Putnam with eighteen men down the lake to recon 1857.] Lake George. 149 noitre the ene- my. The ma- jor found them awarming in great pro- fusion at the other end of Lake George, and begged Webb to allow him to attack them. But General Webb was afraid somebody might be hurt, so be retired to Fort ~V7 Edward, and sent Colo- nel Munroe with a regi- ment to command the garrison at Wil- liam Henry. Montcalm, meanwhile, had collected nine thousand soldiers, and two thou- sand Indians, and embarked for the head of the lake, where he landed about a mile north of the Lake House at Cald- well, and, planting his powerful bat- teries, summoned the garrison to sur- render. Colonel Munroe had less than three thousand men to defend the fort; but he confidently expected reinforcements from General Webb, and kept up heart. Montcalm, a hero and a gentleman, again summoned Munroe to surrender, and told him that, while he was sure of taking the fort, he preferred to avoid a bloody battle. Colonel Munroe, who could not believe in the utter incom- petency and cowardice of General Webb, who lay at Fort Edward with four thousand men, refused to yield, and the siege began. Munroe sent expresses to Webb, and that doughty warrior ordered Putnam and his rangers to march to the relief of Fort William Henry; but when the rangers were about three miles away, he dispatched a messenger to recall them, and wrote a let- ter to Munroe advising him to surrender. Montcalm had been alarmed by the reports he heard of a large force on its way to re- lieve the garrison, but when instead of falling into the hands of the terrible Putnam, this letter of Webbs fell into his, the Marquis smiled, and blazed away at the fort for six consecutive days. While the siege last- ed, the great guns of the fort burst, ammunition failed, there was no help from the cowardly and lazy Webb, and Munroe capitulated. Montcalm gave him honorable terms, but the Frenchman could not control his savage allies. As the English troops marched out of the fort, the wild Indians fell upon them, especially upon the Indians who had fought with them, and a bloody butchery began. All along the road, among the mountains, as they dragged wearily on toward Fort Edward, they were pitilessly murdered, fifteen hundred of them. Professor Silliman states in his Tour~~ that the French tried to repress this savage fury. Let us hope so. We may be sure Montcalm did try. But the slaughter was terrible; and the massacre of Fort William Henry is the darkest stain in the history of Horicon. The fort was leveled by Montcalm. It is now only a cluster 6f grassy mounds. The brave marquis marched away to other victories, and also to be himself surprised upon the heights of Quebec, to fall mortally wounded at the same time with his heroic foe, General Wolfe; to express his admiration of the valor and dlscipline of his oppo- nents; to die before midnight of the day of his last and greatest defeat; and to be buried, at his own desire, in a cavity of the earth, formed by the bursting of a bomb-shell. Victories are too costly that are achieved by the death of such men. As Wolfe floated down the river in the starlight the night before his attack, he repeated Grays eleg~~, then recently published. He is said to have declared that he would rather have written that poem than take Quebec upon the - ~~- 150 morrow. Grahame says that he must have repeated that line, The paths of glory lead but to the gra~e. He and Montcalm were at that very moment treading those pathsand the poet told the truth. Your mind will be very busy with the remembrances of these old French and English wars, as you lie upon the soft grass at Fort George and Fort William Henry, the summer clouds scattering over your head like smoke-wreaths. But war seems to you a fable. The silent shores around you, which look as secluded as if no one but a chance Indian had ever wandered over them, are historic ground. The United States Hotel is near Fort Georgea good house: in fact, you are well off anywhere with the lake before your windows. At Caldwell everybody used to stay at Sherrills Lake House. It is a good, old, easy place. The tray- Lake George. [Aug., eler wore it in his journey like an old shoe. Some families even passed the summer there; but it had only a view across the lake, and you wondered every time you looked why a hotel was not built at the proper head of the lake. That wonder was, probably, father to the Fort William Henry Hotel, which stands upon the battle ground, and is a genuine American caravanseral. During the last year it has been very much lengthened and improved, and can now accommodate five hundred persons. It has some three hundred and fifty rooms; is lighted with gas, and is sup- plied with water to the roof, from moun- tain springs. You may be sure of kind treatment and good fare, while you are the guest of the William Henry; and when you have driven all the lovely drives about the head of the lake, and walked the various walks, and dreamed away the days among the grassy ruins of the fortwhen you lS.7.J Lake George. 151 have boated and bathed, and fished and bowled, until you wish to see Ticondero- ga, and cannot stay any longer, then you will embark upon the new and pretty steamer fitly named the Minnehaha laughing waterand make your path of travel where the fleets of the hostile armies passed. Last year the steamer John Jay was burned. She was the fourth pleasure- steamer upon the lake. Unless Cham- plain sailed into it from his own lake, no boat ever floated upon the Horicon but the Indian canoe; and after the great war, which has made its shores so fa- mous, there was no further navigation until the year 1815. Since then, the James Caidwell, the Mountaineer, the William Caidwell, and the John Jay, have carried the summer travelers across the lake. Now comes the pretty Minnehaha, which was launched on a bright May-day with smiles and festiv- ity, and, as we step on board of her, let us hope that those auspices may herald a smiling career; that a thousand happy young hearts may remember her pleas- ant deck; that the low words, which are breathed over her railings for none but one to hear, may be as sweet and pure as the water beneath, and the air around; and that, on that gay steamer on that calm lake, a thousand Minnehabas may consent to make a music as of laughing water in a thousand bomes,and a thousand lovers hereafter remember Lake George, as the lake of the sacra- ment. In the land of the Dacotas, Where the falls of Minnehaha Flash and gleam among the oak-trees, Laugh and leap into the valley There the ancient arrow-maker Made his arrow-heads of sandstone Arrow-heads of chalcedony~ Arrow.heads of flint and jasper, Smoothed and sharpened at the edges, Hard and polished, keen and costly. With him dwelt his dark.eyed daughter, Wayward as the Minnehaha, With her moods of shade and sunshine, Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate, Feet as rapid as the river Tresses flowing like the water, And as musical a laughter, And he named her from the river, From the water-fall he named her Minnehaha, laughing water. We are beginning the tour of those supposititious three hundred and sixty- five islands. Here, for instance, is Tea- island, or T.-island. It is a lovely, bowery isle, and in the rustic summer- house you can pass many a solitary musing hour, provided that everybody else who wishes to muse in solitude has not started a little earlier, and is already dreaming. You go to this island in a boat from Caidwell. Let it be toward sunset, with tranquillity in the air, and shifting gleams of splendor upon the water. It is a ludicrous pity, to be sure, to have twenty other people, all desiring to enjoy, without company, the same spectacle, and all floating about in their If you are alone on the steamer, shout these lines, and hear the multitudinous music of the mountain-echo: 152 Lake George. [Aug.. boats, and all angry with each other for coming. However, if you have any capacity of enjoyment, you will still enjoy. Na- ture does not hide her beauty from her lover because he comes in a crowd. Helen was as beautiful to Menelaus when all the chiefs came wooing, as when she privately dropped the ecstatic yes, in his enamored ear. So give yourself wholly up to your romance, and if you see Gunnybags passing, and anxi- ously asking his boatman what time he is likely to get back to the hotel to tea, shout out to himmentally asking Wordsworths pardon how richly glows the waters breast Before us, tinged with evenings hues, While facing thus the silent west, The boat her silent course pursues. Ii I And see now dark the backward stream, A little moment past so smiling! And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, Some other loiterers beguiling. Such views the youthful bard allure, But, heedless of the following gloom, He dreams their colors shall endure. Till peace go with him to the tomb And let him nurse his fond deceit, And what if he must die in sorrow, Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, Though grief and pain may come to~ morrow. There is Diamond Island, too, a nook of romance and twining foliage, with quartz-crystals upon its shores, shining like diamonds. It has its bit of history. also. For Burgoyne used it as a ddp6t of military stores, in 1777, and one day in the autumn of that year, Colonel Brown, who had been harrying the 153 1857.] Lake George. British in the neighborhood of Ticon- deroga, came down the lake and fell upon the little garrison of Diamond Isl- and. But the red-coats stood to their arms, and the good Brown left them in possession, and, crossing over to Dun- ham bay, burnt the vessels he had tnken below, and hastened back to Lincolns camp. There is Dome island, ingeniously so- called, because it is supposed to resem- ble a dome. Probably there is a sugar- loaf i dand somewhere in the vicinity; and there is sure to be a sugar-loaf bill. It is a curious inquiry for you to con- sider as you sail along, looking out for Bolton, whether there was ever a group of six hills of which one was not named sugar-loaf. At Bolton, Captain H. Wilson keeps an inn, and supplies fishing materials, and provides an uncommonly good din- uous hill upon the shore, lying north of the Narrows, upon the east. It is twenty-two hundred feet high, and, if you are not afraid of mountains, nor of rattle-snakes, you may behold a wide view from the top. But no pano- ramic expanse is so beautiful as the graceful glimpses and hazy blendings of shore and mountain-line and water, which you see from points nearer the level of the lake. Everywhere the same summer calm prevails: it is not ncr, if you happen on one of the lucky days. Appropriately enough in this neighborhood, as if good fare were a constituent part of the scene, you have Hog island and Hen and Chicken isl- and; names suggestive of the fertility of the imagination that so called them names of singular harmony with Horicon and Lake San Sacrament. You glide on into the Narrows, per- haps the loveliest region of the lake. The mountains crowd together: the lit- tle islands are more frequent: it is an exquisite combination, and as Parkman says, speaking of the lake, in his his- tory of the conspiracy of Pontiac, which contains a concise and graphic account of the French and English operations around these waters : It seems like some broad and placid river, inclosed between ranges of lofty mountains. Black Mountain is the most conspic- easy to believe that the story of these shores is so warlike a tale. And when at length you observe Sabbath-day Point, the scene is so peaceful that the meaning of the name is obvious. And yet, in this very name there is a warlike association. Lord Abererom- bie named it; for on one July Sunday morning, 1758, having passed part of the previous night here for rest and refreshment, he sailed with that brilliant and famous armament, which is the 154 Lake George. [Aug., most poetic spectacle to the imagination in the history of Lake George. Dr. Dwight describes it at its departure from the head of the lake: The morning was remarkably light and beautiful, and the fleet moved with exact regularity to the sound of martial music. The ensigns waved and glit- tered in the sunbeams, and the antici- pation of future triumph shone in every eye. Above, beneath, around, the see- iiery was that of enchantment. Rarely has the sun, since that luminary was first lighted up in the heavens, dawned on such a complication of beauty and magnificence. Dr. Dwight was clearly an enthusi- astic writer; but the military splendor, the music, and the strange contrast, are well described by Parkinan: On a brilliant July morning, he (Lord Abercrombie) embarked his whole force for an attack on rriconderoga. Many of those present have recorded, with ad- miration, the beauty of the spectacle, the lines of boats filled with troops stretching far down the lake, tbe flash- ing of oars, the glitter of weapons, and the music ringing back from crags and rocks, or dying in mellowed strains among the distant mountains. At Sabbath-day Point, when the flo- tilla stopped for the nights refresh- ment, Lord Howe, the favorite of the army, collected a group of officers around him, including Captain Stark husband of Molly Starkand debated the chances of the enterprise. It is recorded that with a prescient melancholy his mind dwelt upon the probably fatal issue. But without mur- muring or delaying, when the order was given, the whole force of sixteen thou- sand men moved fromT the placid point. Lord Howe led the van. A scholar, a gentleman, a brave young man, we think of him as we do of Andre, both of them perishing untimely, in a service that was not very glorious, but them- selves honorable and noble to the end. We can fancy the young Englishman gazing down the lake as the aimament proceeded, and pleasing his eyes and mind with the peaceful beauty of the scene. Yet, as the wild bursts of fa- miliar melody echo in mournful clangor along the mountain-shores, he remem- bers those who are quietly at home in green England, passing through pleas- ant lanes to the old church with which his laughing childhood was familiar; and the holy recollections of his home, the calm summer morning on the lake, and the secret presentiment of impend- ing doom, make it truly to Lord Howe a Sabbath-day Point. Two years before, a party of Eng- lish, pursued by French and Indians, 1857.] Lake George. 155 had made a bold stand upon this point and defeated the enemy; and eighteen years afterward, a party of Americans met a scouting party of Tories and Indians, and routed them with great loss. Little local stories haunt all the isl- ands and points in this region. Henry Marvins History of Lake George, and especially that pleasant and valuable book, Lossings Fiold Book of the Revo- lution, will give them to you concisely. The stories are of no peculiar charac- ter or especial importance. But every little anecdote is interesting when time has intervened, and made every oh- ject seem romantic by mere remote- ness. Mr. Marvin tells us, as we pass Odell Island, that some years ago a gentlemen was invited by two or three others to join in a sailing excursion, and they having before partaken some- what too freely, became so venturesome and reckless, despite the steadily in- creasing gale, that the fear incited by their apparent recklessness induced him to request them to put him ashore. The boat was ballasted with stone, con- sequently his alarin~ for in case of a cap- size she must inevitably go to the bot- tom. This proposition. instead of pro- ducing the desired effect, caused them to proceed more carelessly in managing the hoat. Ridiculing his idea, and con- sidering him as timid, they, to insure his confidence and dissipate all unneces- sary fears, secured themselves by por- tions of the rigging: the man at the helm tied the main-sheet fast to his body, while the others were similarly entangled. Entertaining no hope of their compliance to his wishes, lie watched a favorable opportunity, and as they neared Slim Point. which is two and a half miles north of Sabbath-day Point, and the water being shoal, he jumped overboard, and waded to the shore. They, laughing at his timidity and wishing him a pleasant journey, tacked about and were soon far from the land. The rescued one, for so he pro- videntially believed himself, watched their progress with fearful misgivings; his doubts were but momentary, for a flaw of wind struck the frail hark sud- denly, and all on board were entombed in a watery grave. The sagacious reader will instantly remark that such an accident is not peculiar to Lake George, bat might have happened upon Lake Champlain. The inexorahle historian has but one reply, and that is, that it did not. And here we are at Garfields, in the villige of the Hngne, which is enusid- Garfield and hcr son still keep the good ered the very headquarters of fishing old inn in the good old way. and hunting upon the lake; and Mrs. A jutting point just beyond is called 156 Lake George. [Aug., Friends Point, for the same kind of reason that every sugar-loaf hill is so called. The place is called Sugar-loaf, because it looks like one; and, the point is Friends Point, because two scouting parties met here at night and an en- Ah lovely, indeed! what about Rogers Slide 7 Why, you see, the rock is almost four hundred feet high; a very pretty precipice, while in the eloquent words of the Guide Book, our little steamer majestically ploughs the pure waters which lave their rocky base. But the leaf-fringed legend that haunts about thy shape, 0 bald gray rock, is this In the winter of 1758, during the same old French and English war, Ma- jor Rogers, a ranger, while reconnoiter- ing, was surprised by a party of In- dians. The brave major wore snow- shoes, which are, perhaps, a po6r match for moccasins, lie rushed up to the top of the mountain, and down to the edge of the rock. Then he threw his knap- sack, stored with provisions, down upon the ice, stripped off his snow- shoes, and, turning himself about, put them on hind side before, and, so scrambling, and slipping, and sliding, and running, making all his footmarks, of course, with the toe where the heel ought to be, he crept down a ravine to counter seemed unavoidable, when they happened to discover that they were both of the same sidein fact, friends and hence Friends Point. Still further down the lake upon the western shore is Rogers Slide. the lake, while the tracks looked like those of a person climbing up from the lake. Presently the Indians arrived and found the tracks leading down to the edge of the rock, and also the tracks leading up to the edge, and, with many a wisely-grunted ugh, concluded that two persons had met there, and had thrown themselves over the rock rather than encounter the savages. In the midst of their wise conclusion they sud- denly beheld the lively major, who had taken his knapsack from the base of the rock, hurrying across the lake upon the ice; whereupon, with equal wisdom, the noblemen of nature concluded that the Great Spirit had a particular regard for Major Rogers, and would, probably, cover his retreat. They, therefore, turned back to smoke a pipe with a flea in the bowlif you will pardon such a perversion of the proverb, on this laugh- ing morning, and in this gay little Mm- nehaha. The legend of Rogers Slide seems to prove that, if snow-shoes alone are probably a poor match for moo- 1857.] Lake George. 157 casins, snow-shoes, with a rangers feet in them, can easily outwit an In- dian. There, you observe, is Prisoners Island, whose thick overgrowth was the French dungeon for English prisoners during the seven years war. The wilder lovelii~ess of the lake here yields to a gentler character. The shores are greener fields, and lawny slopes, and the water gi~ows shallower. Fortu- nately, some of the prisoners upon the i~land one day discovered this fact, and tranquilly waded off to liberty. Close by is Ilowes landing, the point at which Abererombies troops landed at noon of the July Sunday, and, form- ing upon the shore, marched toward Fort Ticonderoga, four miles distant. Lake George connects with Lake Champlain by a neck of water, in which are two rapids, and at the lower falls stands the village of Ticonderoga. One of the pleasantest hours of one of the pleasantest of summers will be that you pass musing among the ruins of Ti- conderoga. It is one of the few histor- ical spots upon our soil which unite great picturesqueness with the most interesting associations. The Indians called the strait between the lakes Cheonderogaan Iroquois word, meaning rushing and roaring water. The point was always called so until the end of the seven years French war. In the history of this most interesting region, we must remember that, almost upon the shores, in the immediate neighborhood of the head of Lake George, the British colonists of America, for the first time, encounter- ed in battle the trained soldiers of Europe.* Upon the commencement of the war, the French had posted themselves at Cheonderoga, or Ticonderoga, in the year 1755, and in 1756 built a fort, which they called Carillon. The situa- tion was commanding. It had water upon three sides, and a morass upon the fourth, and was more than a hua- dred feet above the level of the lake. Here sat the French maturing their plans, and getting ready to sally out upon excursions of destruction, and the English had their eye and heart fixed upon Ticonderoga. The French had much the advantage iii the earlier years of the war, having secured the friendship of the Indians, whom the French Jesuit pioneers had always skillfully treat- ed. Montcalm, coming from the de- struction of Oswego, made two or three attempts to subdue Fort William Henry, and finally, as we saw, swept over the lake from Ticonderoga, and leveled th~e fort, at the time of the dreadful mas iParkmans Pontiac. 158 Lake George. sacre. lie then returned to Ticon- deroga. The English were disheartened. William Pitt, the minister, said that Lord London never told him what he was doing, and Loudon was superseded by Major General James Abercrombie, who had served with valor and distinction upon the continent. He arrived, and found himself at the head of fifty thousand men, mostly pro- vincials. He was to do everything that Lord Loudon had not done; and he proposed to begin by taking Ticon- deroga. The moment was promising; for, in the year 1758, the fortune of the war began to change. The fortress of Louisburg was reduced. Fort Du Quesne, which had withstood General Braddoek, yielded to General Forbes, and Fort Frontenac was captured by Colonel Bradstreet. Hoping to strike a blow which would resound at home with even greater applause than these, [Aug., Lord Abercrombie advanced to the head of Lake George with sixteen thousand men. The brave and gallant Lord Howe was one of his officers. The sol- diers were the flower of the English army, and Lord Howe was the idol of the soldiers. We have seen how splendid a spec- tacle was the embarkation at the head of the lake; there were nine hundred batteaus, and one hundred and thirty- five whale-boats. We have followed the brilliant army over the lake, through scenes that demand better things than war; we have stopped with them in the bright summer night at Sabbath- day Point, and remembered Howe, as he must have remembered England. Once more they embarked and rowed away, landing this time four miles from the French fort. Forming into three columns, Abercrombie marched upon the advanced posts of the enemy, a single battalion in a camp of log huts, and drove them back. One of finitely importaut to the army. The only answer was: Putnam, your life is as dear to you as mine is to me. I am determined to go. They moved on, and fell in with some of the retreat- ing French. Both parties fired, and Lord Howe fell dead at the first volley the columns, headed by Lord Howe, lost its way in the woods. Major, afterward General, Putnam, went in front with about a hundred men, as a scouting party. Putnam tried to keep Lord Howe back, saying that his own life was of little value, but Howes in- 1857.] Lake George. 59 Let Parkman tell the sad sequel in his own words: On the following morning they (the English) prepared to storm the lines which Montcalm had drawn across the peninsula in front of the fortress. Ad- vancing to the attack, they saw before them a breastwork of uncommon height and thickness. The French army were drawn up behind it, their heads alone visible, as they leveled their muskets against the assailants, while for a hun- dred yards in front of the work the ground was covered with felled trees, with sharpened branches pointing out- ward. The signal of nssault was given. In vain the Highianders, screaming with rage, hewed with their broad-swords among the branches, struggling to get at the enemy. In vain the English, with their deep-toned shout, rushed on in heavy columns. A tempest of mus- ket-balls met them, and Montcalms cannon swept the whole ground with terrible carnage. A few officers and men forced their way through the branches, passed the ditch, climbed the breastwork, and leaping among the enemy, were instantly bayoneted. Yet, though the English fought four hours with determined valor, the position of the French was impregnable; and at length, having lost two thousand of their number, the army drew off, leaving many of their dead scattered upon the field. A sudden panic seized the de- feated troops. They rushed in haste to their boats; and, though no pursuit was attempted, they did not regain their composure until Lake George was be- tween them and the enemy. The fatal lines of Ticonderoga were not soon for- gotten in the provinces; and marbles in Westminster Abbey preserve the mem- ories of those who fell on that disastrous day. The British loss on this fatal day was about two thousand men, and twenty- five hundred stand of arms. Mr. Pitt was disappointed; the English people were chagrined; and the next year Gen- eral Abexerombie returned to England, and Lord Amherst succeeded him. But Montenlrn remained at Ticon- deroga until Wolfe threatened Quebec; and then the brave soldier marched away. Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why Whose business tis to die? What! sighing? fie! Shun fear, drink on, be jolly, boys! Tis he, you, or I; 160 Lake George. [Aug., Cold, hot, wet, or dry, Were always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly. Tis but in vain (I mean not to upbraid you, boys), Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain: Should next campaign Send us to Him that made us, boys, Were free from pain; But, should we remain, A bottle and kind landlady Cures all again. While Wolfe marched upon Quebec, Lord Amherst, in person, undertook to reduce Ticonderoga. He marched cau- tiously from Fort Edward with eleven thousand men, and, appearing suddenly before the fort, begun his preparations for a siege. The French, accustomed to victory in that quarter, prepared to resist. But they discovered that Am- herst was not Abercrombie; that the fight would be fierce and fatal to one side; and so wisely slipped off to Crown Pointand Lord Amherst entered Fort rriconderoga without a shot. He made ready to follow the enemy to Crown Point, hut they had already retreated. The story of Ticonderoga is not quite ended. There is one more chapter, more interesting to us, Ameijoans, than any otherthe capture by Ethan Al- len. When the Revolution commenced, it was well understobd that Ty should be seized, and shortly after the battle of Lexington, some members of the Con- necticut Provincial Assembly secretly concerted an attack upon the fort. In the spring of 1775, forty men reached Bennington on their way to take Ticon- deroga. There they were joined by Colonel Ethan Allen, a Green Mountain Hercules and his Green Mountain boys. The party, now two hundred and seventy strong, came within fourteen miles of Whitehall, on the evening of the 7th of May. Ethan Allen was there elected com- mander of the expedition, and the force divided into three parties. Allen was to go to Shoreham, opposite Ticonder- oga; the second party was to capture boats at Whitehall, and hurry to join Allen, and the third was to act as a general police, and secure every boat and barge upon the lake. Benedict Arnold, who had just joined the army, arl4ved, at this juncture, without a sol- dier, but with a commission from the Massachusetts General Committee of Safety, to head the expedition. The Green Mountain boys said, if he per- sisted, they should go home again. So Arnold yielded, and seryed as a private, hut held his rank. On the morning of the 10th of May, before light, Allen crossed the lake, with only about eighty-three of his men. There was some mistake about boats, and if they waited until all were over, the daylight would surprise them. 1857.] Lake George. 161 Without further delay, therefore, he led his men to the gate of the fort, Ar- nold marching at his side. The alarm- ed sentinel snapped his musket, and fled. Allen and his men followed, and, entering the parade, they shouted lust- ily, and the startled British soldiers seized their arms only to be seized in turn by the Yankees. Ethan Allen knocked loudly with his sword-hilt on the door of the Command- ant De la Place, and summoned him to appear. Commandant De la Place, in his night-shirt, and Madame De laPlace, in her night-cap, showed their frighten- ed faces together at the door. But re- cognizing Allen, De la Place, with as much sternness as his shirt allowed, de- manded his business. I order you instantly to surrender. By what authority ? In the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress. Resistance was hopeless; and Ticon- deroga was won and lost by the British without a blow. But we lost Ticonderoga agahf. In June, 1777, General St. Clair was in command of the post, with two or thousand men. During the same I y month, the brilliant Burgoyne came sailing up Lake Champlain, with seven or eight thousand English, Germans, and Indians, and, after taking possession of Crown Point, which the Americans did not pretend to defend, he observed that St. Clair had failed to secure the heights of Mount Hope and Mount De- fiance, which commanded Ticonderoga, and he resolved to capture them. He began by issuing a pompons proclamation, threatening all rebels with fire, sword, and tomahawk, and then took comprehensive measures to achieve his purpose. On the 2d of July the Brit. ish army moved; the American outposts fell back; the enemys light artillery and infantry occupied Mount Hope, and on the morning of the 5th of July, 1777, the red coats of the English upon Mount Defiance flashed surprise and dismay into the garrison of Ticonde- roga. At 2 oclock on the morning of the 6th his troops began to defile. But the sun rose upon the cross of St. George floating over Ticonderoga, and the strong fortress was once more lost and won. As you turn from Ticonderoga, Lake Champlain, the Adirondack mountains, and the St. Lawrence are before you. Gentle reader, may the sun be softened and the dust laid, as you sweep on to see the glories, and delight in the pros- perity, of your native land. VOL. x.11 16~ ~Aug., ANOTHER GLIMPSE AT MY K ---9 F NE morning, when I arose from my little bed in No. 783, and prepared to array myself for the d~ities and enjoyments of the day, I discovered that a little silver comb with very fine teeth, which I used exclusively for the adorn- ment of my whiskers, was miss- ing. I usually put it in one place; and now, not finding it there, knew at once that it must have been stolen. Feeling particular ~ ly cross thereat, I. finished dressing, looked up my friend, the bank-clerk, rela~- ed the circumstance to him, and said: Come down into the office with me, and I will see whether my room is my own or not. There have been other things about this hotel which have met my disapproval; but I have suid noth- ing about them. Now, however~ since my private property is not safe from trespassers, it is time to speak out; and I will give that clerk such a talking to, about ;~the way thinge are ~nanaged in this house~ as ha~has not heard in a long time, I reckon. So we went down to the office. The clerk saw us coming, put on his blandest

Another Glimpse at My Hotel 162-174

16~ ~Aug., ANOTHER GLIMPSE AT MY K ---9 F NE morning, when I arose from my little bed in No. 783, and prepared to array myself for the d~ities and enjoyments of the day, I discovered that a little silver comb with very fine teeth, which I used exclusively for the adorn- ment of my whiskers, was miss- ing. I usually put it in one place; and now, not finding it there, knew at once that it must have been stolen. Feeling particular ~ ly cross thereat, I. finished dressing, looked up my friend, the bank-clerk, rela~- ed the circumstance to him, and said: Come down into the office with me, and I will see whether my room is my own or not. There have been other things about this hotel which have met my disapproval; but I have suid noth- ing about them. Now, however~ since my private property is not safe from trespassers, it is time to speak out; and I will give that clerk such a talking to, about ;~the way thinge are ~nanaged in this house~ as ha~has not heard in a long time, I reckon. So we went down to the office. The clerk saw us coming, put on his blandest 1857.J Another Glimpse at my Hotel. 163 smile, and remarked that it was a pleas- ant day. Pleasant day or not, said I, boiling over, that is not the question now. What business have you to admit into this hotel, men who will go into another persons room, and take his property from him ? Havent you a notice in your room to lock your door and leave the key at the office 7 said the clerk, a little sharply. Yes, said I. But still And have you done so 7 said he. No, said I. But still Well, then ! said he. I tell you what it is ! said I. I have boarded in this house a number of years, and With that, the clerk rang his little bell, and a boy appeared. Then I began to think that he was going to raise a row about my little silver comb; that it was hardly worth while to make much cuss about it, after all; and th t I would consent to let the matter drop, on con- dition nothing of the kind ever happen- ed again. Take this shawl and ladys ath-box up to No. 172! said the clerk to the boy. then I grew angry again. Have boarded in this hotel for a number of years, said I and never__ With that the clerk touched his little bell again and a porter appeared. Baggage from No. 50in carriage for up-train 1 said the clerk to the por- ter. And, in fact, it is a remarkable thing, that, as far as I was concerned, the clerk seemed to have lost half his faculties, and the more I talked, the more he seemed unable eit.h9r to see or hear me. Two days after that, I missed a pair of sleeve-buttons, which I had, careless- ly left upon my wash-stand. They were of no great pecuniary value, being of very thin, and pretty heavily-alloyed metal; but being the gift of a friend. I Ii I K 164 Another Glimpse at my Hotel. [Aug., ~ 1~1~~~ N t/ N ~ \ naturally esteemed them far beyond their mere intrinsic worth. I became furious, therefore, and again rushed down to the office-clerk, resolving not to be put off by any supercilious airs, but that I would have my say out, if I left the house the next minute. To my surprise, as soon as I had mentioned my new grievance, the clerk made no attempt to distract his atten- tion by ringing little bells and call- ing porters, but looked particularly grave and drew me off into a corner. See here ! he said, Im sorry for all this. It looks bad for the establish- ment, you know. What was the value of the buttons? Well pay for them. Upon which I began to feel a little mortified, protested that the articles were of no great value, but were merely precious from association; that I did not wish to be paid for them, but merely required some security that such losses would not accrue any longer. The fact is, said the clerk, mourn- fully, there have been other things taken from the rooms, and we cant find out who did it. Old Mrs. Mossop has lost her pearl ear-rings, and Gen. Star- buckle thinks his epaulet- case is gone. But we are going to have a detective officer in the house, and I hope that before long we will get at the bottom of the busi- ness. Only dont say any- thing about it; for it wonld hurt our reputation, you see. Upon which, feeling re- 1ieved as I found such atten- tive sympathy for my losses, I promised that I would keep quiet about the whole matter, and walked away in a toler- able state of composure. The very next morning when I came down to breakfast, and, as usual, glanced around the table, in order to see what new guests had arrived at my hotel, I was particularly struck with a tall black-clad figure, which sat at a little distance from me, at the next table. It was a thin, gentle- .manly looking man, with something of a military car- riage, the effect of which was greatly increased by his straight-cut coat, stiff cravat, and the peculiar curl of his whiskers. A well-shaped forehead, keen vivid eyes, and a slightly Romanized nose assisted in completing the picture of a very genteel and aristocratic person indeed. in fact, if there was any one quality which predominated over all others, it was his gentility. Even his dress assist- ed in producing that impression, being elegantly cut, but plain in the extreme, with no ornament except a single dia- mond stuck into the cravat, and a gold eye-glass fastened with a broad blt~k ribbon. As the stranger placed his eye-glass in his right eye, and, leaning back in an easy gentlemanly attitude, cast a care- less glance over the morning paper, only now and then removing it in order to sip his coffee, I naturally began to speculate upon his profession. In the army, of course: that could be seen in an instant. But in what corps? Perhaps in the dragoons, if one could judge from an occasional tendency to press his foot firmly upon the floor so as to cause an 1857.] Another Glimpse at my Hotel. 165 involuntary rising of the body; perhaps in the engineers, if the peculiar glance which he occasionally cast around the tables, as though taking the angles and distances, could be any index. I decid- ed, firmly, that he must be in the engi- neers; the weight of proof evidently pointed that way. After a while, however, it struck me that there was something familiar in the countenance of the stranger, as though I had seen him before, and at some no very distant time. I recalled his singu- lar likeness to a certain police officer, whom my assistant counsel in the great case of Jones vs. Potters, by her guardi- an-ad-litem, Sakon, in assumpsit, had once employed to ferret out some neces- sary evidence. That individual, it is true, wore a rusty suit of pepper-and-salt, had large vulgar rings upon his hand, and appeared fond of wearing too many plated watch-chains; but still I could hardly be deceived in the identity of that profile, which, the longer I looked, became more and more Jewish in my eyes. And at length the mystery flashed upon me. Away fled all my speculations about dragoon and engineer officersaway fled much of that appa- rent fictitious gentility; and the stranger stood revealed before me as plain Detect- ive No. 17, employed by the proprietors of My Hotel to reside within the walls for a few days in order to ferret out the late robberies, and dressed up for that purpose in the disguise of an aristo- cratic traveler. Thenceforth, for a few days, it became something of an amuse- ment for me to watch the operatitns of the Detective, and pleasantly crow to myself overthe knowledge that, perhaps, I alone of all the guests had fathomed the stratagem. Would you like to go through our establishment, Major Billott I I heard our proprietor say to Detective, when breakfast had come to an end, and we had lounged out in an easy manner into the front hall. Of course Detective re- plied in the affirmative, that being what he had expressly come to do; and I, enjoying the joke, desired to do the same, since I had never before been be- yond the public halls and saloons. And so gathering one or two other volunteers until we had a party of six or eight, we began to go on our rounds. Proprietor first took us into the under- cellar, and showed us how he heated the house and manufactured his own gas; whereupon Detective pretended to be very much pleased withthe ingenulty of the apparatus, and, in fact, expressed his approbation in loud tones in the presence of all the stokers. Proprie- tor then led us into the laundry, and Detective was in ecstasies about the neatness and completeness of the ar- rangements. And thence Proprietor went with us into the kitchen, where fifteen or twenty cooks, scullions, and waiters were collected; and there De- tective redoubled his ecstasies, looked into the pans and closets, questioned the cooks as to their method of cooking this or that article, wondered how so much could be done in such a limited compass, and said that, though he had traveled in Europe, and visited all the principal hotels of the continent, he had never met any containing such a con- centration of comfort, elegance, and con- veniences. Upon which Proprietor pre- tended to be very much pleased, and inquired of Major Billott when he ex- pected his family. Detective there- upon answered that if Mrs. Billott should come from New Orldans by way of the Mississippi, she would, probably, arrive next week; but if, out of regard for the health of the children, she should choose to come by sea, they would prob- ably be along somewhat later. Upon which Proprietor remarked that he would make everything ready for Mrs. Billott and the children, whatever time they might come; and then, having finished the inspection, we adjourned to the main hall, from which I departed for my office, while Detective sat down in the reading-room, and, in a gentle- manly manner, picked his teeth with a walnut tooth-pick. My amusement in watching the operations of Detective No. 17 was ex- cessive for the next few days. It was pleasant to see him walk into the breakfast hail each morning, place him- self in gentlemanly position, call for his toast and coffee, and then pretend to read his newspaper, though all the while peering slyly over the top, and restlessly watching both waiters and guests. It was pleasant, now and then, to hear him open the doors of private parlors into which he had just seen any of the chambermaids or waiters enter, and then, as he retreated, politely apologize for having mistaken his own apartment. And it was pleasant to see him give bright quarters to the boot-black, and 166 Another Glimpse at my Hotel. [Aug., condescendingly enter. into eouversa~ tion with him about himself and the other svants~~thus encouraging an intimacy which might lead to unguarded confi- dcnces. Sometimes it wus not quite so pleas- ant. At different periods I could see that Detective watched me with a sly, uncertain kind of gaze, as though he suspected something. It was evident that he remembered having seen me be- fdre, though he could not~ recall the plane ; and, in such cases, a police offi- cer is naturally suspicious. Once, when I happened to become very much to be a large clock directly over his head, and Lam convinced that he did so simply to ascertain whether I carried my own watch or that of some one elseand, for a time, I never could walk out of any of the halls without encountering his suspi- cious glance; while, whenever I came out of my room, he was sure to be watching me with a queer sort of look, as though he thought it had been another gentle- mans room. All this was sufficiently embarrassed under the condescending attentions of mywaiter, I accidentally caught my sleeve in the tabh~-cloth, whereby a silver spoon fell into my lap; and, as I replaced the spoon, I saw that Detective had witnessed the operation. A sudden flush of animation passed over hisface as though he had felt he detect- ed one source of theft, andthen he com- posed his features, with the air of a per- son who is resolved not to act precipi- tately, but prefers to await further and more certain developments. That after- noon he met me in the hall, and asked me the time of day, though there happened disagreeable; but, after a while, I made up my mind not to regard it, and, wrap- ping my soul in triple folds of conscious rectitude, bore the infliction bravely. Moreover, as day after day passed on, and nothing was found out, I began to have for Detective No. 17 a contempt, which completely overpowered all my nervous dread of him. I began to look upon him as a man who very much overrated his skilland one who, even N 1857.] Another Glimpse at my Hotel. 167 if he could make a discovery, would notbeing, probably, well contented with his free, luxurious living and~asily- earned salary, and, consequently4eing resolved to keep up the farce, and post- pone, for as long a period as possible, the inevitable day, when he must throw off the gentleman and return to his pepper-and-salt clothing, and vulgar plated jewelry. About this time an alarming epide- mic broke out in My Hotel. It attacked men and women indiscriminately, but few or no children suffered. It was at- tended by sundry singular symptoms, among which, the most common were sighs, loss of appetite, rolling up of the eyes, and a tendency to write bad poetry, and seek for the society of an individual of the opposite sex. In some cases, where two people of opposite sexes sought each other by some mutual attractionwhich, in fact, was a very customary diagnosis of the epidemic the pain of both was relieved, though the violence of the disease rather in- creased. In other cases, where it hap- pened that the person attacked could not obtain the sympathy of the particu- lar individual towards whom he or she inclined, the details of suffering were often frightfulbeing attended with such an excess of sighing and wander- ing of intellect as might have moved a heart of stone. And what was most peculiar about the epidemic~ was, that a physician was never called in, and the disease was generally suffered to run its course, until the last sad offices of the clergy were required. This epidemic first attracted atten- tion at a social ball, given by the pro- prietor to his guests in the house, and to a number of invited friends from without. Proprietor had argued that, if he went to some extra-expense in order to make us happy, other guests would be attracted into the house, and that thus his outlay woul4 be amply paid back to him. And, accordingly, he hired a band, turned on extra lights, provided ample refreshments, and man- aged to make everything very pleasant and delightful. But, unfortunately, his schemes led to a result directly the re- verse of what he had anticipatedno new boarders came into the house, and so many of the old ones were directly or indirectly carried off by the epidemic, that serious loss was entailed upon him. $ome, upon being attacked, immediately gave up their rooms, and undertook to gain relief by traveling and change of scene; others, principally of the male sex, surrendered high-priced apartments upon the second story, and ascended to low-priced ones in the uppermost story, whence they could look out misan- thropically upon the waste of roofs, and feel abandoned by the worldwhile one lively and wealthy lady of an un- certain age, who had for years occupied a parlor and bedroom in the third floor front, at an enormous weekly expense, and had, moreover, been profuse in the matter of extras, was so violently at,- tacked, that she never fully recovered; and happening to encQunter sympathy in one of the opposite sex, she left the establishment altogether, and now re- sides in Twenty-fifth street. As one whose system had, by repeab- ed shocks, been thoroughly hardened against this epidemic, I stood by, a calm and disinterested spectator; and, by dint of close observation, was soon enabled to gain a complete and accurate knowledge of the diagnosis of the dis- ease. At first, I perceived that the epi- demic manifested itself in two different waysin what physicians would have called a true and a false onethe latter being but light in its attacks, auA readily yielding to change of air, teit,~ porary absence, or even a decided in- ability to gain the requisite amount of sympathy, while the former kind was generally fatal. And, after a few days, I began to distinguish these varieties from each other by an unfailing sign. It happened that the windows of the parlors of My Hotel were, at that time, decorated with very elegant curtains, the right hand curtain of each recess being composed of white lace, while the left hand curtain was formed of heavy crimson brocade. Noticing that a pen- son, when attacked by the epidemic, usually drew some one of the opposite sex behind these curtains for some pri- vate c6nversation, I set myself to watch ;.. and soon ascertained, as an un- failing rule, that a temporary seclusion behind~. the lace or right-hand curtain always indicated a light and passing attack, while a stolen interview behind the brocade, or left-hand curtain, was invariably followed by the most disas- trous results. How great, therefore, was my sur- prise, when, one evening, I detected ray friend the bank-clerk snugly ensconced 168 Another Glimpse at my Hotel. [Aug., behind this left-hand curtain! Had he been on the lace side, or in company with some giant belle, laden with jewel- ry, I should have thought little about it; but he was not only ensconced behind the darkest folds of the thick hrocade, thus indicating the fatal nature of his attack, hut his partner was a lively young girl of modest, unassuming de- meanor, simple attire, and hardly reach- ing to his shoulder. It was evident that the Cupid who had hitherto con- trolled the preferences of my friend was absent or sick, and that another ~ Cupid of different and more simple tastes had temporarily assumed the place. As soon as I could entice my~friend up into No. 783, I seated him at my table, poured out a glass of wine for him, and then demanded an explana- tion of what I had seen. My friend blushed up to his temples and drank his wine with an appearance of great agitation; and then, assuming an air of unwonted boldness, replied: Comenow! Isay! I dont know what business any one has to call for any explanations from mehut I dont mind. It must all come out some day, I sup- pose. Othei~ young fellows are always getting married all round us, and theres no reason why my turn should-. nt come too, you see. And the fact is, this hotel life is dreadfully lonely at times. especially just after dinner; and it would be quite the chalk to have a snug little house of my own, with some one ready to meet me when I come in, and domestic comfort, and all that sort of thing were always reading about. Why not for me as well as for other people, Id like to know.~~ Why not, indeed I thought. Though my friend was not brilliant, he had very fair average abilities, and he was rather pre- possessing in his appear- ance, bore an excellent char- acter, and enjoyed a toler- able salary, which, in the event of his marriage, would doubtless be in- creased. However, his father was well off, and he had excellent expectations from a rich maiden aunt in the country. And besides all that, the young lady, though probably able to assist him somewhat through her father, was not exactly what one would call an heiress, and consequently would not be very apt to hold her head too high and spurn a respectable alliance. I began to think that my friend was making a very good move in life, and that it was my duty to help him on. In fact, Ihave always had a match- making propensity, which I believe I have inherited. The Inklespoons were generally good match-makers. There was my Aunt Esther, wife of the Rev. Thomas Allowby, of Carratville, for instance. She made half the matches in the place, and, as her husband was generally called in to tie the knot and she took the fees, it was commonly re- ported that she made a very good thing of it. Then there was my great uncle, Solon Inklespoon, who was wild upon 1857.] Another Glimpse at my Hotel. 169 the subject. It is said tnar once, learn- ing that a certain dissolute negro had been drowned, he persuaded the mans pretty mulatto wife to go right off and marry a promising young barber who had long admired her at a distance. By the time the ceremony had been fairly performed, some inconsiderate neighbors had brought the drowned man to life again; whence there arose considerable trouble and angry disputa- tion as to whom she belonged. Some said that the lien of the first husband had never been lost, and that she should go back with him; others, and princi- pally all the negroes of the town, argued, that, as he had been drowned, so, at the time of the second marriage, she had been actually a widow, and that the rights of the second husband could not be divested by the subsequent recovery of the first one. The whole matter turned upon the question whether a man is dead when he is drowned. I believe that, as the parties were too poor to go to law about it, the affair was finally compromised by the woman retaining both husbands. Well, I concluded to assist my friend in his matrimonial plans, and thereto incjuired how far the matter had ad- vanced. Not very far, said he. That is, noining is cecided, you see, but I can tell very well that she likes me. They will not go back to Maryland till fall, so I shall have plenty of time. The only thing that bothers me is the old gentleman. It will be easy enough to speak to her when the right moment comes, but he is such a gruff old fellow that I am afraid of him. I say, when all is ready and agreed upon between her and me, will you talk it over to Mr. Sparhawk for me, and tell him what a good fellow I am, and how happy I could make his daughter, and how I can bring references, and all that, you know 1 I promised that I wo~dd do so. And yotl neednt talk to the other fellows about it, and set them laughing at me, he continued. If you want to laugh at any one, take the Head Waiter. Hes in lovehe is. The Head Waiter ! Yessmitten with some little col- ored girl that works about the building. He caine to me and wanted me to write a love-letter for him. Which you did, of course Which I didnt, answered my friend. You know I am not up to that sort of thing. But I referred him to you, and he said he would come this evening. 170 Another Glimpse at my Hotel [Aug., The deuce he will ! Yes, answered my friend. And I reckon here he comes now. In fact, at that moment there was a knock at the door, and the Head Waiter entered. A more respectable and gen- tlemanly~ k~oking negro could not have been found~ probably, in any hotel in the city. It was a sight to watch him come in at dessert, heading a long file of subordinate waitersto mark the elegant set of his broadcloth suit, ren- dered more elegant by the gracefulness of his position as he stood nt the head of the table and cast his eyes around upon his well-drilled regimentto ob- serve the solemnity with which he sig- naled with the little bell that the cov- ers should be removed. Beside the true and lustrous gentility of the Head Waiter, the gentility of my own par- ticular waiter appeared in its real light as a base and worthless counterfeit. The latter, by a pretentious condescen- sion, would overawe and confase us but th6 former, by an easy yet deferen tial familiarity, would inspire us with respect and put us at our ease from the start. head Waiter was a universal favorite with all. He was liked by old gentle- men because he always attended so strictly to the icing of their sherry by old ladies, becatise he always saw that they had seats near the head of the tableby mothers, because he turned away his head and winked when they stole mottoes and oranges off the table to give to the childrenby chil- dren, because he himself supplied them in the same manner with choice confec- tioneryand by young men, because he was such a gentlemanly fellow, that it was almost a distinction to be seen talking with him. In consequence of all this popularity, every fe~tival was marked by a subscription for his bene- fit: and, as his regular wages were large, it was supposed that he ought to have saved up much money. There was a difference of opinion about this, however; some averring that he spent all his income on kid gloves, while others knew for cer- tain that he owned two houses on Long Island, and rented them at high rates to thriving clam-diggers. You were wanting to see me about writing some- thing for you ? I remarked, as Head Waiter entered. Yes, responded Head Waiter, without the slight- est embarrassment. I am at this moment enamored of a young lady employed about this house, and, if agreeable to you, I would like to have my affections expressed in a suitable man- ner upon paper. I feel that a proposal by epistle will be more genteel than ver- bal communication. And I am not ashamed to own that I cannot write very well myself. I think that my hand has been spoiled by lifting covers. Well, sit & own for a few minutes, I said; and, drawing up my writing- case, I wrote out a very fine and deliberate proposal of marriagesuch an one, in fact, as I might have 1857.] Another Glimpse at my Hotel. 171 written for myself. Head Waiter took it, looked it over, but did not seem very well satisfied. What is the matter ? said I. It is extremely beautiful, indeed, said Head Waiter; but if you could in- troduce a little more fire, so to speak, and flattery, andthat. isand glow of expression, 11 think that Certainly ! I said; with pleas- ure. And I wrote a new letter, in which I introduced every fi0ure and conceit which affection could invent praised each individual feature of the beloved one with the most extravagant adulation~ scattered flame and passion broadcast in every line; and, finally, wound up with a most flourishing and sentimental tender of heart and hand. Even Lamartine could not have put into the mouth of his most ardent lover a more glowing and impassioned decla- ration. And, of course, Head Waiter was delighted, thanked me a thousand times, and declaxed that he could have no doubt of a successful result. By the way, said I, as he moved toward the door, any news of the late robberies ? None as yet, .answered Head Waiter, though we trust to get at it before long. I have been inclined to suspect Sam, who waited at your table, and left us last week. Not that I know anything against him in particular, but you .may not be aware that he comes of low blood. His father blacked boots in the street, at three cents a pair, while my father kept a respectable hair-dress- ing saloon, and never charged less than a shilhino With that, Head Waiter moved ma- jestically out of the room, while my friend, the bank-clerk, remained be- hind, to go into convulsions. And, two days afterwards, Head Waiter inform- ed my friend, as one who had a right to know, that the flaming love letter had accomplished its work, and that the marriage would take place that evening. The wedding, however, was to be private; since, as Head Waiter justly argued, the proprietor of My Hotel might not like married people for assistants, while, as long as they did their duty to the establishment, it should surely make no difference. And Ihave invited him up to your room, as soon as he is dressed, so as to show himself, said my friend. Accordingly, in order to give him a suitable reception, I invited all my friends to the muster, under promise of secrecy. The poet first came; then the editor who patronized the poet; then the professional organist; then the little German wine-importer, with a wicker flask peeping out of his pocket~ and a merry barcarole issuing from his mouth; and then, after a slight inter- val, there was a knock at the door, and Head Waiter, accompanied by my par- ticular waiter, as groomsman, entered. I will not attempt to describe the dazzling sight which met our eyes, as the two men threw off their cloaks, and stood before us in all their elegance; the shining lustre of the broadcloth dress-coats; the minute polish of the boots; the voluminous folds of the white cravats; the set of the satin vests, and the artistic arrangement of the frizzed- out hair. The pen of the Arab poet, who inventoried Aladdins Palace, should alone undertake the task. Suffice it to say, that, while the splendor of the groomsman eclipsed that of any white, bridegroom whom I had ever seen, the glory of the bridegroom, in turn, im- measurably surpassed him. lATe shouted out our admiration with one voice; we heaped all kinds of com- pliments upon them; we pledged them in full cups of costly sherry; we made them drink a parting glass with us; and, finally, as their hour of departure ar- rived, we accompanied them to the door with new compliments, and quite a little shower of bright half dollars for wedding presents. And we will drink happiness to you all this evening, I said to Head Waiter. Thank you very much, sir, said Head Waiter. And do not betray me, gentlemen. To-morrow I will return to my duty as usual, and when our pro- prietor discovers that I am a married man, he will have seen that I am no less worthy of my trust than before. And so they left us; and we, return- ing to the table, prepared to honor the occasion, by making a night of it. Each brought his bottle, a pile of cigars was laid on the corner of the table, and the cards were dealt. Naturally our con- versation ran on matrimony. We look- ed at the gleaming stars, and wondered which was Venus. We looked at the bell-tower, and wondered whether the man who lived there was married; and, if so, how he could bear to leave his wife, and accept such a loiwly pest 172 Another Glimpse at my Hotel. [Aug., By unanimous consent, we changed the rules of the game, and made hearts a perpetual trump, and the - queen the highest of the suit. And at last I could stand it no longer, but informed the as- sembled company, that, in a short time, we should probably be invited to the wedding of our friend, the bank-clerk. With that there was a shout, and a call for particulars; and before particu- lars could be given, the little German wine-importer jumped up, and proposed the health of the future wife of our friend. The toast was drunk standing, and with uproarious honors. And now for the particulars ! said the poet. I assure you, said my friend, the bank-clerk, the matter has not come to any definite conclusion. Nothing settled as yet, you see. But it will be? Well, yes; I think I may say it will be, responded my friend, the bank- clerk, losing all discretion, as the wine and excitement of the moment began to inflame him. That is, I know she likes me, and I think I will speak to her about it to-morrow. Here is her ring she has lent me to wear. Thats a pretty good sign; is it not, fellows ? Avery good sign! But, her name I Well, shes the daughter of Mr. Sparhawk; up here from Maryland for the summer. Shes about five feet, and Drink to the health of Miss Spar- hawk ! cried out the German wine-im- porter; and we drunk it as before. Hence, little by little, as my friend the bank-clerk drank again and again, his remaining discretion entirely desrert- ed him; and he began to babble forth his hopes and prospects in an uninter- rupted and half incoherent train. It was in vain that I attempted to restrain him. On, on flowed the torrent of his words the development of his plans. He would gain the consent of the lady the next morning; he would then have me go to the old gentleman, and state the ease, and talk him into a good humor, and give all necessary references. That matter would, of course, be easily set- tled. They would be married in the fall, most probably; they would take a little cottage in Staten Island or Ho- boken; perhaps the old gentleman would come down with enough, by way of dowry, to enable them to buy a house in Thirty-first street. Where- ever they lived, he would be happy to see us all every few evenings, and he would take care that we should have as /~ /yi~ ~c~& ~ \~.~ Ji/~j~ 2 1857.] Another Glimpse at my Hotel. 173 good a time there as here. To which plan, unanimous approbation was in- stantly given by all the company. The German wine-importer promised a wed- ding-present of some of the finest Johan- nisberger that had ever paid duty; the poet engaged to getup an epithalamium; the professional organist said he would set it to music; and the editor insisted that the weddiAg announcement should be published in his paper with leaded type, and for nothing. And I say ! remarked my friend the bank-clerk, rising and steadying himself against the table. Come here to-morrow night, and then you can hear the result, you know. This is rather out-of-the course; but to-morrow night you can congratulate me formally about the thing as a finished piece of business, and all that. Drink once more to Miss Spar- hawk ! cried the German wine-im- porter; and, as we drank, a knock sounded at the doorI hardly know why we all started so at the noise of a simple rap. But it was a deliberate sort of a rapnot like that of any of our friendsand seemed to bring with it a premonition of evil. The door opened, and Detective No. 17 entered. Is this your watch 7 he said to me. I felt in my pocket, but my watch was not there. I remembered having left it very good beginning of it in helping to diminish his future wifes hereditary prospects. Detective continued: So I went after the girl and found her just married to the fellow. And while scuffling with him, your watch, which I recognized, fell out of his on my wash-stand, but it was not there either. I looked at the watch which Detective held, and recognized it as my own. Where did y~nd it 7 I said. The head-~ had it, replied Detective. Oh ! said I, willing to shield the fault of a person whom I so much es- teemed, and who, in a moment of ex- hilaration, might have yielded to tempta- tion for the first time. YesI must have lent it to him. A strange kind of thing to lend to a hotel waiter, remarked Detective, drily. But are these your sleeve- buttons? And is this your silver comb 7 A perspiration started out from every pore of my body. I knew not what to say. You see, the way the whole thing came out, was this, continued D e- tective. Mr. Sparhawk accidentally heard that his daughters dressing-maid whom he had brought up from Mary- land, and who belonged to him, was going to run away with the head-waiter. So What! cried my friend the bank- clerk, starting up, completely sobered. You dont mean to say that the girl belongs to Mr. Sparhawk 7 At this we, of course, laughed; and the poet said that our friend had made a pocket. That, of cwurse, excited my suspicions, and I arrested him for a further search. And, concluded De- tective, I found upon him pawn~ tickets for everything that has beer~ stolen from this house for the past two months. He is now in jail. 174 A Summer Invocation. [Aug., But the girl ! cried my friend the bank-clerk. Did you get her again 7 At which, of course, we all laughed, seeing his interest in keeping the family property together I; The girl we ~ot get again, answered Detective. Nor do I think we shall. Some of the other darkeys spirited her away, and I do not think Mr. Sparhawk will try to recover her. It always costs more to reclaim such property in these states than it is worth, you see. But Mr. Sparhawkwhere is he 7 I asked. You should only have heard him swear 1 said Detective, Mr. Spar- hawk blew off steam for an hour, I should say, and then paid up his billand was off. Off? Yes, responded Detective. He says he has lost enough already, and will not stay a single minute more in any northern state. He left with his dttughter for the Jersey City ferry about an hour ago. An~l before he left, the heachwaiter confessed that there were two young men in this hotel whn set him up to this scrapeI mention no names, gentlemen. And Mr. Sparhawk desired rue tosay, continued Detective, that if either of those two young men ever comes within three miles of him again, he will break every bone in his body. Good-evening, gentlemen. A SUMMER INVOCATION. O GENTLE, gentle, summer rain, Let not the silver lily pine The drooping lily pine in vain To feel that dewy touch of thine To drink thy freshness once again, O gentle, gentle, summer rain. In heat, the landscape quivering lies; The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies, The earth looks up in vaiji for thee For thee, for thee, it looks in vain, o gentle, gentle, summer rain. Come thou and brim the meadow streams, And soften all the hills with mist; O falling dew, from burning dreams, By thee shall herb and flower be kissd, And earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle, summer rain.

A Summer Invocation 174-175

174 A Summer Invocation. [Aug., But the girl ! cried my friend the bank-clerk. Did you get her again 7 At which, of course, we all laughed, seeing his interest in keeping the family property together I; The girl we ~ot get again, answered Detective. Nor do I think we shall. Some of the other darkeys spirited her away, and I do not think Mr. Sparhawk will try to recover her. It always costs more to reclaim such property in these states than it is worth, you see. But Mr. Sparhawkwhere is he 7 I asked. You should only have heard him swear 1 said Detective, Mr. Spar- hawk blew off steam for an hour, I should say, and then paid up his billand was off. Off? Yes, responded Detective. He says he has lost enough already, and will not stay a single minute more in any northern state. He left with his dttughter for the Jersey City ferry about an hour ago. An~l before he left, the heachwaiter confessed that there were two young men in this hotel whn set him up to this scrapeI mention no names, gentlemen. And Mr. Sparhawk desired rue tosay, continued Detective, that if either of those two young men ever comes within three miles of him again, he will break every bone in his body. Good-evening, gentlemen. A SUMMER INVOCATION. O GENTLE, gentle, summer rain, Let not the silver lily pine The drooping lily pine in vain To feel that dewy touch of thine To drink thy freshness once again, O gentle, gentle, summer rain. In heat, the landscape quivering lies; The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies, The earth looks up in vaiji for thee For thee, for thee, it looks in vain, o gentle, gentle, summer rain. Come thou and brim the meadow streams, And soften all the hills with mist; O falling dew, from burning dreams, By thee shall herb and flower be kissd, And earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle, summer rain. 1857.] 175 SCHAMYL AND llJ~ HAI~EM. WHILE the armies of the Allies Were fretting before Sebastopol, our correspondents enlivened their letters with a pleasant episode in the Caunasus. Schamyls eldest son, who had been for some years lif the hands of the Rus- sians, was excha~r~d for two Russian princesses ~horn~ the prophets scout- ing-parties had baptured in Georgia. A Prussian officer, who was present at the exchange, gavewhat our correspond- ents could nota minute description of the wh~ affair in a pamphlet published i~~Berlin last yeas and we have, at last, the narrative of ~the prin- cesses, written in Russian, under their dictation, by Mr. Verderevski, the editor of the Gazette de Ti.flis. The princess- es are sisters, women of great beauty, grand-daughters of the last of the sove- reigns of Georgia, and maids of honor to the empress. Anne Chavchavadz~ is the wife of Prince David, who is at the head of the militia in northern Georgia, and her sister, Varvara Orheliani, had just lost her husband and a son at the time of the capture. Anne then had five children, one of whom was dispatched on the way to Schamyls residence, and Varvara had one. The young Princess Nina Barn- tof Ivan Chavchavadz~, a distant relation, and a score of servants shared their eaptivity. rrhe book, which is en- titled Plene ou Chamila, pravdivaia povest o yes mi- mC fiatchnon% i chesticlnev- norn, etc., etc., after giving a very minute account of the capture and the three weeks march through the mona- tains to Dargui Vedeno, ushers the prisoners into the prophets harem, on the eighth of July, 1854. It was late at night when they were introduced into the court of Schawyls resi- dence. It was full of wo- men; a single man, Schamyl himself, watched their ar rival from a balcony. A door opened into another court, about which ran a range of rooms, and an elevated verandit The wOmen helped the prin. cessos to dismount, took them into one of these rooms, and removed their riding- ilresses. It was not long before a daughter of Schamyl, thirteen ~rcars old, carn~ in~ She had a fine figure, and the waiting-women manifested great respact for her. rrhen two of his wives madetheir appearance. One was thin, marked with ssiiall-poa, and twenty- four. She had bhwk eyies, a long nose, turned up at the end, and thin, tight lips; still she possessed a nameless grace peculiar to Tartar women. They called her Za~dee; she was the daughter of one of the prophets most influential advisers, Djemmal-Eddin, after whom he had named his eldest son. The name of the other was Shwenee. She

Schamyl and His Harem 175-184

1857.] 175 SCHAMYL AND llJ~ HAI~EM. WHILE the armies of the Allies Were fretting before Sebastopol, our correspondents enlivened their letters with a pleasant episode in the Caunasus. Schamyls eldest son, who had been for some years lif the hands of the Rus- sians, was excha~r~d for two Russian princesses ~horn~ the prophets scout- ing-parties had baptured in Georgia. A Prussian officer, who was present at the exchange, gavewhat our correspond- ents could nota minute description of the wh~ affair in a pamphlet published i~~Berlin last yeas and we have, at last, the narrative of ~the prin- cesses, written in Russian, under their dictation, by Mr. Verderevski, the editor of the Gazette de Ti.flis. The princess- es are sisters, women of great beauty, grand-daughters of the last of the sove- reigns of Georgia, and maids of honor to the empress. Anne Chavchavadz~ is the wife of Prince David, who is at the head of the militia in northern Georgia, and her sister, Varvara Orheliani, had just lost her husband and a son at the time of the capture. Anne then had five children, one of whom was dispatched on the way to Schamyls residence, and Varvara had one. The young Princess Nina Barn- tof Ivan Chavchavadz~, a distant relation, and a score of servants shared their eaptivity. rrhe book, which is en- titled Plene ou Chamila, pravdivaia povest o yes mi- mC fiatchnon% i chesticlnev- norn, etc., etc., after giving a very minute account of the capture and the three weeks march through the mona- tains to Dargui Vedeno, ushers the prisoners into the prophets harem, on the eighth of July, 1854. It was late at night when they were introduced into the court of Schawyls resi- dence. It was full of wo- men; a single man, Schamyl himself, watched their ar rival from a balcony. A door opened into another court, about which ran a range of rooms, and an elevated verandit The wOmen helped the prin. cessos to dismount, took them into one of these rooms, and removed their riding- ilresses. It was not long before a daughter of Schamyl, thirteen ~rcars old, carn~ in~ She had a fine figure, and the waiting-women manifested great respact for her. rrhen two of his wives madetheir appearance. One was thin, marked with ssiiall-poa, and twenty- four. She had bhwk eyies, a long nose, turned up at the end, and thin, tight lips; still she possessed a nameless grace peculiar to Tartar women. They called her Za~dee; she was the daughter of one of the prophets most influential advisers, Djemmal-Eddin, after whom he had named his eldest son. The name of the other was Shwenee. She 176 Schaniyl and his Harem. [Aug., was an Armenian; the mountaineers captured her in the village of Mosdok, on the Terek, in 1840. Now about thirty, tall, rather stout, but still hand- some, she had a remarkably fresh com- plexion; her face wore an expression of gentleness which charmed them all, and she was in a very interesting situa- tion. The princess Anne asked her where her children and the other prisoners were. Shwanee toW her that they would be brought into the Seraglio, but that Scliamyl wished to allow the prin- cesses time first to make themselves at home. They could have with them those whom they chose, she said. In a few minutes, the children and some of the servants came in. Before long the room was invaded by a crowd of women and children, dressed in coarse blue chemises. The third wife of Schamyl, Amina, was among them. She bad a very piquant Caucasian face, was ex- ceedingly vivacious, and not more than seventee~x Besides her deep blue chemise, she wore red trowsers, a strip- ed tunic and a black veil. ZaIdee and Shwanee had a collation served up. Tea, honey, wheat bread, and some very del- icate bon-bons, made the children for- get their weariness. Toward bed-time the room was gradually cleared. The Seraglio was composed of a number of wooden buildings, ranged around a court some fifty f~et in length. One of them, two stories high and sur- rounded like all the rest by a veranda, was reserved to the use of Schamyl; not exclusively, however, as the room above his bed-room was used to dry meat in. His women occupied the other buildings, with the exception of a large room near the entrance of the court, which served for an audience hall and council room. Before the Seraglio was a pavilion occupied by na*bs and other prominent men. Next morning, about nine oclock. breakfast was brought in. It consisted of butter, made from goats milk, onions, oil, boiled mutton, and wheat-bread, with a coating of tallow on the crust, in the highest style of the Circassian bakers. Some of their fellow-prisoners came to see them during the day, and towards evening Khadjio, the steward, came in to announce a visit from Scha- myl. The mountain chief soon made his appearance, but he did not cross the threshold; he sat down under the ve- randa, on a stool which an attendant brought for him. Khadjio stood on one side of him, and a Russian inter- pretera deserter, whose Christian name of Andrew had been Moham- medanized into Indrison the other. Schamyl began the conversation across the threshold by courteously asking, through the interpreter, after their health. We are considerably fa- tigued, they answered; but, thanks be to God, we are well. I am surprised, continued Schamyl, that you have all arrived so happily, and I see in it an evident mark of that divine protection which has, doubtless, preserved you in order that I may be enabled to exchange you for my son, 1857.] Scharnyl and his Ilaresn. 177 and so realize my dearest hope. I have Murides as may distinguish themselves come to quiet your fears; no one here in all endless elements of intrigues and will do you the least injury, and you rivalries. ~vill be treated in everything like the Their life was monotonous. But members of my familyon one con- there were some pleasant things about dition: you must write no letters with- it. Schamyl sent for their children, out my permission. If you attempt to and dismissed them with their hands have any secret communication with full of bon-bons and preserved fruits. your people, I shall make short work What fault can we find with Scha- with you; I shall not even spare your myl ? said Shwanee. He is always children. I shall make an end of you full of respect and tenderness for us; he all, as I did of ten Russian officers who makes no distinction between us. When received a letter concealed in a loaf of I lived in Russia, I was very young, but bread. As soon as the ruse was disco- I remember having seen there more vered, they were decapitated by my or- than one Christian who was not half so der. Keep in mind, also, the fate of a good as he. young girl, a Russian countess, who Shwanee did not tell the truth when was captured by my men, while she she said this, and she knew it very well. was on her way to be married in Stavro- She was Schamyls favorite, and she pol.* I might have exchanged her long deserved to be so, not only on account ago, but I keep her because she dared of her equanimity and gentleness, but to brave me. The same thing may also on account of the edre she took of happen to you; do not forget that. her person. While Zaidee ran about The Princess Anne was too much the sgraglio with a bnnch of keys in her agitated to reply; Varvara came to the door and said These threats are needless; we should obey your orders without them. Our rank and our principles forbid us to deceive you, and you may put full faith in our promises. As to the letters which may be sent us, we cannot answer for them. Very well, answered the pro- phet; but remember that you are in the power of Schamyl. So ended this audience. Scha- myl rose and walked away, follow- ed by Khadjio and Indris. Aside from the three sultanas. the cold, calculating Zaidee, and the smiling, sportive Shwanee, and Amina, there were in the seraglie a whole world of relatives and ser- vants, mothers of the young wo- men, who were housekeepers and cooks; the wife of Djemmal Eddin; Khadji-Rebil, the governess of Schamyls daughters, an old Tar-.,. tar, hard to please; Ilita, Khadjis - - wife, who was the head of that family; hand, in an undress of which she ought Tamard, whom the mountaineers had to have been ashamed, Shwanee, even in captured when a girl on the banks of the morning, appeared in fall dress, and the Alazan, and whom Schamyl had the elegance of her costume heightened married as a spy to Scum, a favorite the magnificence of her beauty. whom he was nbt quite sure of. There Meantime, the agents of Prince David~ were a number of these, young girls, arrived in Vedeno, and there was a con destined to be the reward of such ference between them, the prisoners. The Russian government has made long but fruitless search for the heroine of this story it may or may not have been an invention of Schamyl to intimidate his prisoners. VOL. x.12 178 Schamyl and his Harem. [Aug., a certain Hassan, who represented Schamyl, Zaidee, Kbadjio, and others of the family. Schamyl offered to exchange the prin- cesses for his son, a number of Che- chen chiefs, a hundred and sixteen other captives, and a million of roubles. The agents returned with it, and Zaidees persecutions continued. On the arrival of Schamyls second son, Kazi-Mash- met, a well-formed, hard-featured young man of twenty-one, who talked with Bourtonnai, a naib showed them a let- ter from Schamyl, in which these words occurred: I have seen, in a dream, that the interpreter of Prince Orb~liani is coming to me with good news of my son. My eyes are following him. On the morning of the sixth of December, Gramof arrived at Schamyls camp. He first wrote to Schamyl to know how he should present himself. As a Rus- sian, was the reply. He was admitted to Schamyls tent, after giving up his arms, and found the prophet with P an- iel-Sultan sitting on his right, and on his left Ker-Effendi, a half-blind Murid, who never leaves the side of his master, while on a campaign, even sleeping with him. The interpreter bowed, and gave to Schamyl, in silence, the letter of Lieut. Gen. Orb~liani, to whose staff he was attached. It was merely a letter of re- commendation, but Gramof took advan- tage of it to congratulate the mountain chief on the permission which the em- peror had given, in relation to his son. When it had been interpreted, Schamyl invited him to sit down, and inquired about his general and Prince Chavchav- adz~. God be praised! they are well, answered Gramof. They thank you for the care you have taken of the prisoners. We appreciate it fully; and if we do not, God will reward you. Next morning, Schamyl sent to in- quire after Gramofs health, and, toward five oclock, some of the imaums guard brought him, on a wooden waiter, birch tea, in a dish containing about a dozen cups. He was obliged to swallow it all, and not leave even a drop, for fear of offending his host. In the mid- dle of the day, the same servants brought him dinner. In the evening, he was invited to Schamyls tent again, and was asked a great many questions about the Russian generals, and many other things; but there was nothing said about the exchange of Prisoners. At ten oclock next day, Schamyl in- troduced his guest into his cabinet. Daniel-Sultan and Ker-Effendi occupied their old places, on the right and left of Schamyl. Gramof recognized the naib, Mourtoul-Ali and Slwanees in- terpreter, Shakh-Abbas, ranged, with many others, along the walL The envoy saluted the assemblage, and stopped a few steps from the door. Art thou well 7 said Schamyl, be- nevolently. Thanks be to God and you, re- plied Gramof. Schamyl pointed to a place on the carpet before him, and told him to sit down. The envoy obeyed, doubled up his legs on the carpet, and, in a few minutes, Schamyl smiled and said: IsaY-Bek, how dost thou like Dagh- estan 7 Imaum, in what sense shall I inter- pret your words 7 asked ~ramof. What dost thou think of the roads, the customs, the reception thou hast met within a word, everything thou hast seen 7 Imaum, will you allow me to be frank ? Certainly, answered Schamyl; every man ought to be sincere, both with God and with his fellows. Then, Gramof continued, I must say that, in your domains, the roads are muddy and very bad. Forests, fords, and defiles render it difficult to travel. I scarcely made nine versts a day, be- fore I was tired. As to the reception which has been given me, I am very much pleased at it. Yes, my friend, said Schamyl, that is just what I wanted thee to say. Thou seest that the powerful sovereign who will not submit to three great monarchs can do nothing against me, although he is continually sending his armies. I know I ought not to compare myself to great sovereigns; I am only Schamyl, a Tartar; but, my bogs, my forests, and my defiles render me stronger than many monarchs. If I could I would anoint every tree in my forests with holy oil, and pour sweet- smelling honey upon the mud of my roads, I think so much of them. These trees and these roads are my strength. Schamyl, when he had finished this disquisition, turned toward the assem- blage, with a smile of satisfaction. [857j Scham!,1 and his Harem. 179 Everybody else smiled; then, changing his expression5 he again addressed the Russian envoy: IsaY-Bek, great personages always commence their most serious confer- ences with pleasantries, then they come to important questions; that is the way we do. Now, let us talk of our busi- ness. Command, imaum, said Gramof; I will reply to you. Perhaps the Princes Orb~liani and Chavchavadz6 want to play with me 7 - said Schamyl, in a very different tone from that in which he had been speak- ing. The interpreter manifested great sur- prise, and all present gave their most fixed attention, while Schamyl con- tinued: At first I asked five millions of roubles ransom. After that, taking compassion on them, I demanded only a million, a hundred and fifty prisoners, and my eldest son; but so far they have given me nothing but flue promises. I am astonished at the number of letters they write; it would be much better to go on with the business. I am especially vexed with thy Prince Orb6liani, and if I had himbut he would, doubtless, do the same with me: we are enemies. At these last words, Schamyl. who generally keeps his eyes half closed, often winking, opened them wide, and assumed a menacing expression. After a moment of silence, Gramof said, in a very respectful tone: Jmaum, allow me to speak. Speak, said Schamyl; tell me what thou hast to say. It is a matter of perfect indifference to the princes whether you ask five millions or onesovereigns alone have such sumsbut I am authorized to re- peat to you the offer they have already made; which is, to pay you forty thou- sand roubles. God only knows the trouble we have had in getting this sum together. Gramof stopped here, but Schamyl said nothing. So Gramof went on. Here is Daniel-Sultan, who must understand the condition of the Georgian princes. Ask him if there is a single one of them whose whole property is worth a million? Daniel-Sultan confirmed Gramof s as- sertion, and added: I am very much surprised that they have been able to find so much as forty thousand. The other naibs put in a word; Gramofs assertion seemed doubtful to them. IsaY-Bek, said one of them to him, what thou sayest is false. What is a million to them? Nothing. If our imaum demanded it, they would give him an arba full of gold. Demand two of them, if you like, answered Gramof, not very coolly. What would you do with them? You could not take them across your moun- tains. I see that you have no idea of what we call a million. If you had to count as many beans as there are units in a million silver roubles, and not eat till you were through, you would all be starved to death before you had finished. This metaphor seemed to strike the naY bs, who, in fact, had no idea of the amount they were talking about, and Gramof was feeling very compjacently over his eloquence, when he saw that his compatriot, Shakh-Abbas, was about to speak, and that he would spoil it all. So, turning immediately to Schamyl, he said: Imaum, will you do me a favor 7 What? said Schamyl, dryly. Command silence; I cannot ex- plain myself. Thou wilt not be interrupted again, said Schamyl, looking about with an air of authority; but what are we going to do about this ? Really the princes cannot give you more than forty thousand roubles; but you will have, besides, your son, and all the prisoners which can be got together. In case your son does not decide to pro- fit by the permission which the emperor has given him, you can send confiden- tial persons to him to persuade him to do so. Dear Isal-Bek, I care less for the return of my son, than for the interest of my people. I have been separated from him now for more than seventeen years; I have forgotten him. No, give me a million. Prince Chavchavadz6 has lost his family while defending his coun- try bravply. The emperorewes him a reward; he has a right to demand it. Imaum, answered Graniof, in our country no man dares make a de- mand of his emperor. He, of his own will, has deigned to permit your son to return to you; the prince would not have dared to ask such a favor. As to the courage which he has shown, a great 180 Schamyl and hzs Harem. [Aug., many others have done as much, and if a million were to be given to every one of them Very well; we will talk about all that again. I must go to prayers. Imaum, asked Gramof, I would like to talk with you alone. Very well, very well. Depart with the grace of God. Gramof left. He was furnished with excellent meals during the day; even salt was offered hima mark of high consideration among the Chechens. He had given a letter to Schamyl for the prisoners the night before, and their children came to see him. At night Shckh-Abbas, and several who were present at the levee, came to see him. Gramof talked with the interpreter in Armenian, offered him a watch, two pieces of gold and some tea; where- upon, the confidant of Schamyl prom- ised to aid him. Hostilities meanwhile recommenced, and Schamyl left Y~deno to attack the Russians in person. The coarseness of their food, cold, and privations of every kind now revealed to the prin- cesses the industrious malevolence of Zaidee. It was September, and the mountains were already covered with snow. The room of the prisoners was very open, and the chimney smoked insufferably. While Schamyl was fight- ing with the Russians, his palace resembled a school-room when the master is absent. The youngest son of the imaum took advantage of these two weeks, to run about on the roofs, ~eatter live coals through the court, and break latches and things generally. Schamyls expedition was a failure; he did not come back in the best humor imaginable, and the young scapegrace suffered. At last, news came that the long looked for Djemmal-Eddin had been at Stavro- pol, whence he went to Prince David, in company with Gramof. Schamyl sent three men, Shakh-Abbas, Khadjio, and the man who had been compelled to give Djemmal up to the Russians fourteen years before, to identify him. Meantime, the ransom of prisoners of inferior rank, went on, and they were treated with less attention in the hope that their com- plaints might induce their relations to pay more for their release. The prin- cesses heard the sacred chant oftener. They were told that Schamyl had sent for a pious hermit, to whom he had assigned a room near him. On certain days, the mountaineers of the neighbor- hood assembled in the outer court, and the hermit gave them a sermon through the window, in which he spoke of riches with contempt, and expounded to them the severe doctrines of the Murides. What time was not devoted to these harangues, he spent in prayer, and Schamyl himself, with his son and some of his family, often joined him in this. Then the odd intonations of the chants reached the room of the princesses. When the holy zenobite gave the signal, all present repeated these songs with the ecstatic convulsions which are 50 frequently to be seen at camp-meet- ings. tfhe three inspectors returned fall of 185~i.] Schamyt and his Harcm 18J enthusiastic admiration for Djemmal- Eddin. There was but one single stain on his characterthey had seen him go into the quarters of some of the Russian officers, and when they looked in at the windows to see what he was doing, they found him dancing. The mountaineers were indignant. What, the son of Schamyl dancing! But the gentle Shwanee tried to excuse the young man. The princesses thought matters were getting on finely; but their fears were to be played upon again. Schamyl. pushed by his people, had sent a letter to Prince David, demanding the million again, and had received an angry an- swer. The princesses, however, were given to understand that Schamyl him- self was not strenuous on the million point. His people, however, were, and he had sent for the hermit, to preach down their avarice. On the same even- ing. they learned that it was all settled. Old Hassan was sent over to the Russian camp, to count the money. As 35,000 roubles was in silver, mostly in small pieces, and his arithmetic was not re- markable, he made a bungling piece of work of it. However, Gramof helped him, and he got through, at last, though they had hard work to make him take 5,000 roubles in gold. Schamyl wanted it all in silver, to make it seem a great deal; his people thought they were getting the million. So, at least, the Prussian officer tells us in his pamphlet. Our two authorities dif- fer as to the date of the exchange; the Prussian gives the fourth Thursday in March, 1835, new style; and the prin- cesses, the fifth; at all events, it was Thursday. Schamyl would have no oth- er day; he commences campaigns, and everything else, on Thursday. The time was ten oclock in the morning, and the place was near the border, within three or four miles of Fort Kurinski. It is spelled Chassaw-jurth, by the Prussian; and Khasaf-Yourt, by the Russian probably, its orthography is not quite settled yet. A very comfortable plain, on the Russian side of the Michick, near one of Schamyls old redoubts, which General Nicolni had taken and dismantled, eight or ten weeks before. The general, who was also baron, marched out of the fort at nine oclock, with various companies of cavalry, ar- tillery, and infantry, with the 40,000 roubles all in sacks, bearing Hassans seal; and, last of all, the prophets eldest son, Djemmal-Eddm This personage, the prospective suc- cessor of Schamyl, was then a young man of twenty-two, had a good form rather slender, but elastic and strong, and a fine faceexpressing, at once, intelligence, energy, and kindness. At the assault on Akoolko, in 1838, he was given up to the Russians as a host- age, and he had been educated, by the emperors order, in the cadet corps at St. Petersburg. Here he graduated some years ago, and he then held a commission as lieutenant in a regiment of lancers. He had shown a good deal of taste for study, and had with him many books and maps, which he was taking to V~deno. The happy morning came. Four- wheeled arbas, such as had never before been seen among the Chechens, were brought to the seraglio. The Prin- cesses spent an hour in leave-taking. Even Zaidee manifested some sensi- bility. They entered the wonderful four-wheeled arbas. Chechen excite- ment was carried to the highest pitch; they were drawn, not by oxen, as ar- bas always had been, but by horses. Schamyl was gallant. Kazi-Mashmet awaited them at the gate of the serag- ho, with a detachment of horse. Iran Chavchavadz6 was waiting for them, too; he had been ransomedby whom, 182 Schamyl and his harem. [Aug., he knew not.. The convoy passed through th~ village, and, as it passed, the princesses heard sprrowful voices crying out from the houses by the way: You who know what it is to suffer here, do not forget us ! Schamyl joined them, with his Mu- rides, as they passed out of the vil- lage. An immense black parasol was borne over his head. They spent the night in Maiour-Toup, the last acul in Schamyls possessions. The pris- oners were lodged in a house near Schamyls. In the evening, Schamyl requested them to write to Prince Da- AdFort Koorinsky, where he then was, was only a dozen miles distant for Gramof to come immediately. To- ward four in the morning, Gramof came. He introduced himself to the Murides on guard, and was taken to the prophet, whom he found stretched out on a carpet, and bolstered up with cushions, before a roaring fire. What ! said Gramof; are you not asleep, imaum 7 Thou hast deprived me of sleep to- night. I was waiting for thee. And my son, continued Schamyl, after a pause; is he well 7 God be praised; hes in good health. They tell me that he has forgotten every word of Tartar 7 It is true; he has lived in Russia for so many years. But do not re- proach him for that; he will soon learn to speak your language as well as ever. Be sure that I shall let him live as he pleases. All I ask is, that he should stay with me. Schamyl came round again to his fear of being betrayed by the Russians. Gramof reassured him of their integrity, and Schamyl inquired about the siege of Sebastopol. Both sides are still safe, Gramof answered; nothing has been accom- plished yet. What ! said Schamyl, three Czars cannot take a fortress in eight months! After that, I have a right to be proud of holding out against Russia for so many years. It is true, I owe it prin- cipally to the forests of my Chechenie, and the precipices of my Daghestan. So they talked ~n until six oclock. Gramof asked permission to see the princesses. Schamyl gave it, but on condition that he should come to see him again. After having reassured the princesses, who were frightened on his arrival, he went back to Schamyl. The prophet ordered a naib to show him the precise point at which the exchange was to be made. Before going, Gramof begged Schamyl to forbid his men to fire off their muskets as a mark of joy. I would do so, said Schamyl but will your troops do the same 7 Since the death of our emperor, we wear mourning, and consequently are debarred from every mark of joy. What! Your emperor dead 7 cried Schamyl. You do well to wear mourn- ing. He added, after a pause: Well, the son of such a father must be like him. Is his successor really the Alexander who came into the Caucasus not long ago 7 The same, answered Gramof. After reflecting a few moments longer, Schamyl continued: Come, my son; time is pressing; return to Koorinski, and hasten the departure of thy troops. I will not say adieu to thee. In a few minutes these directions were carried out, the detachment and the arbas crossed the bed of the Mi- chick, Khazi-Mashmet saluted Prince David in the name of his father, and old moollah gave him the title of Alexan- der, and soon his princess, too, was in his arms. There was an embrace between the long-separated brothers; and the dark-faced Murides, resplendent with gold and silver, set up the sacred chant. There is no god but God. The Prussian searched the blank counte- nance of Khazi-Mashmet for some ex- pression of feeling in vain, only a con- fused smile played around his thin, bloodless lips. While the prisoners were receiving the congratulation and the sympathy of their friends, Gramof and our Prussian officer accompanied the two sons of Schamyl to their father. All along the way, Djem- mal-Eddin was beset by Schamyls sol- diers, who pressed about him to kiss his hands or his garments. The Prussian was crowded away from his side, and was considerably frightened for his person- al safety; but Djemmal made room for him, by sharp Russian words which the mountaineers could not understand, and threatening gestures which they could. When they reached the Michick, Djemmal took off his Russian uniform, and transformed himself into a mountain- eer from top to toe, the Murides, mean- time, admired the Prussians English sad- 1S57.] ScI& amyt and his Harem. 183 die, and a percussion-lock pistol that he ward to kiss his fathers handSchamyl wore. Djemmal mounted a magnificent clasped him to his breast, held him long, horse which his father had sent him, and wept over him like a child. And and they went on. Soon the third son all the troops, near and distant, raised of Schamyl, Mashmet-Shabi, rushed the oft-repeated cry: There is no god through the ranks, and, with aloud cry of but God. The Prussian grew enthusi- joy, embraced his step-brother. When astic; he saw in the expressive eyes of ths~y reached the foot of the mound, Schamyl a deep melancholy, which which Schamyl occujied, they dis- arose, perhaps, from the consciousness mounted and walked up in silence. of the moral misery of his people, and Above Schamyl waved his great black the hopelessness of all his attempts to flag, covered with verses from the Koran, bring them up to a higher level, or to worked in silver with a crescent of secure to them that independence which massive silver over all. To the Prus- they neither knew how to prize, nor sian, Schamyl appeared to be a stately preserve. After the first embrace, man of about fifty-five, with beautiful- Schamyl placed Djemmal on his right, ly-regular features, and a black beard, again and again pressing his hand, while which was evidently the object of con- he said to those present: I thank God siderable care. Feeling and soul spoke who has preserved my son; the emper- from his large dark eyes. He was un- or who has given him back to me; the armed, and his dress consisted of a full- princes who have contributed to his re- green caftan, with the fur cap and veil turn; and thee, IsaX-Bek, for thy good of the Murides. Djemrnal stepped for- services. 184 [Aug., INDIA INK I IT is a tarry sailor-man Doth shift his quid and sigh; And musing oer his Injin ink, He spits, and pipes his eye In all their queer variety, Perusing, one by one, Spars, anchors, ensigns, binnacles, His fokesal chums have done. Around his arms, all down his back, Betwixt his shoulder-blades, Are Peg, and Poll, and July-Ann, And Mer, and other maids; And just below his collar-bones, Amidships on his chest, He has a sun in blue and red, A-rising in the west. A bit abaft a pirate craft, Upon his starboard side There is a thing he made himself, The day his Nancy died. Mayhap it be a lock of hair, Mayhap a kile o rope He says it is a true-love knot, And so it is, I hope.

India Ink 184-185

184 [Aug., INDIA INK I IT is a tarry sailor-man Doth shift his quid and sigh; And musing oer his Injin ink, He spits, and pipes his eye In all their queer variety, Perusing, one by one, Spars, anchors, ensigns, binnacles, His fokesal chums have done. Around his arms, all down his back, Betwixt his shoulder-blades, Are Peg, and Poll, and July-Ann, And Mer, and other maids; And just below his collar-bones, Amidships on his chest, He has a sun in blue and red, A-rising in the west. A bit abaft a pirate craft, Upon his starboard side There is a thing he made himself, The day his Nancy died. Mayhap it be a lock of hair, Mayhap a kile o rope He says it is a true-love knot, And so it is, I hope. 1857.] Mendelssohn and his Music. 185 N aught reeks tb at gentle foremast-hand What shape it wear to you With soul elate, and hand expert, He pricked itso he knew. To Edard Cuttle, mariner, His sugar-tongs and spoons Not dearer than that rose-pink heart, Transfixed with two harpoons; And underneath, a grave in blue, A grave-stone all in red Here lies, all right, poor Toms delight; God save the markshes dead Permit that tarry mariner rro shift his quid and sigh, Nor chide him if he sometimes swear, For piping of his eye. Few sadder emblems are the hearts Than, traced at first in pink, And pricked till all the picture smarts, Are fixed with Injia ink. MENDELSSOHN AND HIS MUSIC. UU~e~eY the most strik- history of mu- sic is the rise and unbroken continuity of that series of composers which has made Germany, for the last century and a half, the musical centre of the world. The great period of German poetry began almost simultaneously. The thunders with which Bach, from his organ, inaugurated the grandest tri- umphs of the one art, would scarcely he subsided before Klopstock, in his Odes, sung a noble advent hymn to the Au- gustan era of the other. They were alike, too, ia rapid progress towards perfection. As poetry culminated in Goethe, who has himself showa how far his all-in- clusive genius represented that which had gone before, so, at a later period, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy resumed in the great circle of his creative power those splendors of musical faculty which had preceded him. From Bach down to Beethoven there is no great composer with whom Mendelssohn had not much in common, though, as we shall see, he had his own matter and mode of the loftiest order. We do not, indeed, mean to say that the actual products of Mendelssohns genius fully bear out an analogy with Goethe. Ars ion ga, vita brevis, was more mournfully true for the composer than for the poet. Though the former early began his work and bent to i~ with a brave earnest- ness through all his brief career, many a golden link is wanting to the chain with which we might have taken the full measure of his powers. The general parallel between Ger- man music and German poetry fails in one particular. Other countries besides Germany had great living poets, but the music of that land was the music of all the world. In imaginative writing France had great names and England still greater; but the sturdiest patriot- ism of both could but admit that there were but one Haydn. one Mozart, and one Beethoven. The only other contemporary school of music, that of Italian opera, serves, by contrast with its own light and sensuous character, to show where the soul and intellect of the art found their native energy. The Rhine and its wines ivere riot more niiique phenomena to the touring and

Mendelssohn and His Music 185-192

1857.] Mendelssohn and his Music. 185 N aught reeks tb at gentle foremast-hand What shape it wear to you With soul elate, and hand expert, He pricked itso he knew. To Edard Cuttle, mariner, His sugar-tongs and spoons Not dearer than that rose-pink heart, Transfixed with two harpoons; And underneath, a grave in blue, A grave-stone all in red Here lies, all right, poor Toms delight; God save the markshes dead Permit that tarry mariner rro shift his quid and sigh, Nor chide him if he sometimes swear, For piping of his eye. Few sadder emblems are the hearts Than, traced at first in pink, And pricked till all the picture smarts, Are fixed with Injia ink. MENDELSSOHN AND HIS MUSIC. UU~e~eY the most strik- history of mu- sic is the rise and unbroken continuity of that series of composers which has made Germany, for the last century and a half, the musical centre of the world. The great period of German poetry began almost simultaneously. The thunders with which Bach, from his organ, inaugurated the grandest tri- umphs of the one art, would scarcely he subsided before Klopstock, in his Odes, sung a noble advent hymn to the Au- gustan era of the other. They were alike, too, ia rapid progress towards perfection. As poetry culminated in Goethe, who has himself showa how far his all-in- clusive genius represented that which had gone before, so, at a later period, Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy resumed in the great circle of his creative power those splendors of musical faculty which had preceded him. From Bach down to Beethoven there is no great composer with whom Mendelssohn had not much in common, though, as we shall see, he had his own matter and mode of the loftiest order. We do not, indeed, mean to say that the actual products of Mendelssohns genius fully bear out an analogy with Goethe. Ars ion ga, vita brevis, was more mournfully true for the composer than for the poet. Though the former early began his work and bent to i~ with a brave earnest- ness through all his brief career, many a golden link is wanting to the chain with which we might have taken the full measure of his powers. The general parallel between Ger- man music and German poetry fails in one particular. Other countries besides Germany had great living poets, but the music of that land was the music of all the world. In imaginative writing France had great names and England still greater; but the sturdiest patriot- ism of both could but admit that there were but one Haydn. one Mozart, and one Beethoven. The only other contemporary school of music, that of Italian opera, serves, by contrast with its own light and sensuous character, to show where the soul and intellect of the art found their native energy. The Rhine and its wines ivere riot more niiique phenomena to the touring and sq Mendelssoha and his Music. bibbing portion of European society than the music which sprung into being in their nei~hborhood was to all lovers of the tuneful art. After the existence of this concentra- ted interest for more than a hundred years, Mendelssohn, in succession to Beethoven, was its direct heir. In the presence of Weber, Meyerbeer, and Spohr, he was facile princeps amongst the composers of his time and country. As a proof and a consequence of this, there is now scarcely a performance of hi~h-class music in any part of the world, from the programme of which Mendelssohns name is omitted. How, and under what circumstances, he attained this great position within the few years vouchsafed to him, is an inquiry, we hope, not without interest to general readers. In the early life of Mendelssohn not one favorable augury for a noble future was wanting. The very race from which he sprung was the primmval foun- tain of sacred melody. He held kinship to Miriam, and the swoet singer of Isr~rel. His more immediate genealogy was not undistinguished. His grand- father was Moses Mendelssohn, a kind of Hebrew-German Plato, who, in the years when German literature was put- ting on its strength, stood with mild philosophic countenance by the side of Lessinh, Wieland, and Klopstock, and was in no degree dwarfed by the stature of his contemporaries. To the dignified Theism of the grandfather the sacred music of the grandson seems to succeed in the same relative order as the new to the old dispensation. While, however, a great Jew philoso- pher was well enough for the pen- ultimate link in Mendelssohns ancestry, the ultimate was still better ; for his father was a rich banker, possessing all resources to lavish upon the culture of the son, and an eye to see in him some- thing worthy to tax them all. The genial banker occupied his proud inter- mediate position between Moses and Felix without sharing the genius of either; but that position was not to him the point of indifference, for he showed a humorous appreciation of the honor in his habitual saying, When I was a boy people used to call me the see, and now they call me the father of the great Mendelssohn. Nor was there wanting to the early direction of the c~imposers powers that blessed in- [Ang., fluence which has entered as a primary element into nearly all that is great in human deed,the fostering care of a tender and thoughtful mother. She was of a distinguished family of the name of Bartholdy, but it was her chief distinction and happiness that she gave to her son his last name and his first musical impressions. Mendelssohn, the second of four children, was born in Hamburglm on the 3d of February, 1809, in a house behind the church of St. Michael, which house the author of the German Memorial takes care to inform us was left standing by the great fire of Iiamburgh a circumstance which, in these degenerate days, we find it difficult to attribute t.o any remains of that musical suscepti- bility which the elements were wont to show in the days of Orpheus and old Amphion. The childs leading taste displayed itself at an amazingly early age, and it was carefully nurtured arid every appliance furnished for its devel- opm~t. No need in his case, as in poor little Handels, for stealthy mid- night interviews with a smuggled clavi- cord in a secret attic; nor, as in the case of Bach, for copying whole books of studies by moonlight for want of the candle, churlishly denied. Mendelssohns childhood and youth present as fair a picture of healthy and liberal culture as educational records can show. A warm and discerning affection charged the atmosphere in which he grew up with every influence that could elicit and. strengthen his latent capacities. About his third or fourth year the family removed to Ber- lin, and here, under the training of Ber- ger, he acquired his mastery over the pianoforte, which in his eighth year he played with wonderful finish; while in the theory of music he had made so much progress under rough old Zelter best known as the friend and corre- spondent of Goethethat his tutor was fond of telling with a grim smile how the child had detected in a concerto of Bach six of those dread offenses against the grammar of m~isic consecutive fifths. The lad plays the piano like the devil, says Zelter to Goethe, amen gst many other ejaculations of wonder at Meiidelssohns early musical development. Finally, in 1821, lie brought his pupil on a visit to Goethe at Weimar, and with this event commenced the long- 1857.] Mendelssohn and his Music. 187 standing friendship and correspondence between the composer and the poet. We find amongst Goethes minor poems a stanza to Mendelssohn commemorat- ive of this visit, and inviting its repeti- tion. It is to be presumed that at this period Goethe was interested in the boy chiefly as a musical prodigy, but he soon found in him points of closer in- tellectual contact with the circle of his own genius. The immense musical faculty of Mendelssohn had not been allowed to stunt and maim his other powers of mind. He was a good clas- sical scholar, and in 1826 he drew warm praise from Goethe by a transalation of the Andria of Terence. He was skill- ful, too, in drawing, and could after- wards fix his impressions of the He- brides or the Alps in other forms than they assumed in his great pictorial sym- phonies. This became to him a great resource as a diversion to his mind in the intervals of his wonderful musical activity. In general art-criticism he always displayed an insight and knowl- edge which might have done credit to the sp~cialit6 of Waagen. Mendels- sohns mind was, indeed, as rich and facile in all departments of modern in- tellectual culture as if he had no .sp~cialit~ of his own. But whatever might be the sources of Goethes regard for Mendelssohn, there is evidence enough of its strength. When the young composer, on his first visit to England, in 1829, was thrown from a gig in London and wounded in the knee, the poet wrote to Zelter thus: I wish to learn if favorable news has been heard of the worthy Felix. I take the greatest interest in him, and sun in the highest degree anxious that one who has done so much should not be hindered in his progress by a miserable accident. Say something to reassure me. And when, in 1830, Mendelssohn had spent a pleasant fort- night inWeimar, Goethe thus character- istically reported the results to himself of this visit: His presence was particularly beneflciat to me, for I find my relation to music is ever the same; I hear it with pleasure, sympathy, and reflection, but I like most its history; for who understands any phenomenon if he is not master of the course of its development? It was, therefore, of the greatest importance to find that Felix possesses a commendable insight into this gradation, and fortunately his good memory brings before him the classics of every mode at pleasure. Frosn the epoch of Bach downward he has brought to life again for me 1-layda, Mozart, and Gluck; has given sue adequate ideas of the great modern theorists; and, finally, made me feel and reflect upon his own productions, and so is departed with my best blessings. The original works thus mentioned may seem to he brought into perilous conjunction with the greatest names of the musical Pantheon; but to those who know them there will seem nothing anomalous in the association. Al- though scarcely twenty years old, says Mr. Benedict, he had at this period composed his Ottetto, three quartets for piano and stringed instruments, two sonatas, two symphonies, his first violin quartet, various operas, a great number of separate Lieder, or songs, and the immortal overture to A Midsummer Nights Dream. In some of these works there were the inevitable crudities of boyish ambition; for the wings of early genius are not equable in their very first movements. In most of them, however, and notably in the great Shakespearean overture, composed at the age of sixteen, there are all the splendid vigor and symmetry of the young eagle sunning his newly-per- fected pinions. This rapid outburst of a fresh and consummate creative power, differing essentially from all its predecessors, is not to he lazily regarded as an event of ordinary evolution, nor are its results to be valued only for their novel gotst upon a jaded mental palate. The un- likeness of genius in its essence to any- other thing dreamt of in our philosophy is here realized almost to our very senses. An ardent and thoughtful boybut one to whom leap-frog and cricket are by no means unfamiliar processestakes his Wieland Shakespeare, and is caught away by the moon-lit fantasy of the great fairy drama. He feels the beauty of the scene translating itself into ex- quisite rhythm in his brain, and, un- pelled by a resistless inspiration, he throws all the resources of his art into the process, until the tricksiness of Puck, the delicate grace of Titania, and the elvish majesty of Oberon, are so made to alternate and to blend in the movement, that it forms a perfect tone- picture of the poets dream, finally fading away in a few high, soft chords, like a dissolving view, at the first ob- trusive ray of morning. Everywhere a genial and fluent fancy is apparent. 188 Mendelssohn and his Music. [Aug., but this by no means completes the wonder. rrhe boy has that great cun- ning of his art so to control his melodic conceptions, and knit them up into strength by the use and. distribution of modern orchestral resources that the science seems a portion of the inspira- tion, and the dream is the more dream- like that thought is woven into its filmiest tissue. And so the youthful hand jots the signs which fix and coavey his ideas, and henceforth there is in the wend a new pleasure, and a pleasure of a new kind. It is unfortunately pos- sible that some may see in all this only a fresh impulse to an already too stien- ucus catgut; hut in the mature and masterly workmanship of the boy Men- delssohn we discern a clear pledge of a new endowment for the world, nnd see something of that stout fibre out of which is spun the thread of a great des- tiny. We now understand something of old Zelters prophetic raptures. It was the performance of this work in London which initiated Mendelssohns great and ever increasing English repu- tation. Without taking up a permanent abode there, he became after this so fre- quent a visitor in England, with such an accession of pleasure and repute on each occasion, that his name and fame seemed to become as steadily English as were those of the more thoroughly domiciled Handel in his day. Nine times he iveut to England, finding in its scenery and society, and in the im- mense executive resources placed at his disposal, constant irapulses towards new heavens of invention, which con- tinually opened up before his daring intuition. It is true his life was spent mainly in the Fatherland, and his journeys out of it were not always in the direction of England. In Italy, for instance, he imbibed with intense enjoyment that air to which the artists of all lands go to see their own aims and outlines clearly. Rome was to him, as to all men of his tempera- ment, at once a school and a shrine and the society which he enjoyed there, of such men as Vernet, Bunsen, Lizst, and Berlioz, must have exerted a healthy and expansive influence upon his mind. But Italy could not supply the alirnent needful for his earnest and act- ive nature; and London and Birming- ham were really more to Mendelssohn than Rome and Naples. In Paris, whither he went twice, he found nothing to induce a frequent recurrence of his visits. At Dusseldorf, Leipsic, and Berlin, he spent fourteen active and chequered years, through which we cannot minutely follow him, holding various appointments, and producing a constant succession of works in every department of compositionthe pro - ducts of each year gaining in depth and grandeur until his genius and fame reached their culminating point in the marvelous inspiration of Elijah. By social position, by the happy bal- ance of his own cultivated nature, and by that greatest of mortal blessings, a thoroughly sympathetic marriage, Men- dlessohn was sure in any place to find his enjoyment of life less influenced by local limitations than most inca find it. He was comparatively exempt fioin that wretched class of incidents which has infused into the lives of so many great composers all the bitterness of Marab. But this exemption could not, in Ger- many, be entire. At Dusseldorf the joiiit man~ ement of the theatre bred a coolness and ultimate alienation be- tween Mendelssohn and Immerman the poet, even after that sacred symbol of Germaii friendship, the pronoun du, had passed between them. Leipsic was enthusiastic, and Mendelssohn was its favorite, but a composer like Schu- mann could be its favorite, too, and it could yield to the arrogant dogma of Wagner, that Mendelssohn was me- chanical ; and so, hardly was the fa- vorite off the s~ene before Elijah ~vas performed to a room half-filled. Berlin had its royal commissions for Mendels- sohn, with some pleasure and much profit appended; but in the city of cliques and criticism, with its intellect- ual atmosphere rarefied to the last point of negation by Voltaireism and Ilegelism, his genial nature must have felt as if in an exhausted receiver. The composers connection with Eng- land was chequered with no such d~sa- gr~mens. His love of that country struck root early, and the plant, when acclimated, grew as hardily as a native. With his acute and observant mind he must have soon seen that whatever fame he gained there was safe and perma- nent. That very matter of fact ten- dency which his countrymen have some- times made a charge against England, and which has perhaps hindered Eng- lishmen from being so rich in productive and executive musical ability as other 1857.] Mendelssohn and his Music. 189 nations, is favorable to their prompt and steady recognition of any true talent of that kind which may appeal to them. The products of such a talent are tested at once by their consonance to truth and nature, and not by arbitrary canons of criticism or scholastic preferences: and judgments so founded are not lightly disturbed. The faculty which in England finds the simplest national air to be true and pleasant is the same which has success- ively and firmly appropriated the grand- est strains of Handel, Beethoven, and Haydn. And it was the same faculty which at once founded in Mendelssohns Overture to the Midsummer Nights Dream that mental affinity, for his sub- ject which stamped the composer as a true artist. After this there was no danger that in England, at least, he should ever be considered dry or mechanical, and we are not aware that to this day there is any regret expressed there that he was not more original, in the spasmodic, Taunhailser sense of that word. How many securities, and in what rapid succession, he afterwards placed between himself and any such absurd regrets we need not here ac- count. He gave England much, but from England he won no niggardly response. It is not mere insular complacency in an Englishman to assert that there all the greater works of Mendelssohn woke the echoes of the world. The sympa- thy which they elicited in London and elsewhere was the electric current, and the British press was the conducting medium through which his fame was flashed over Europe, including Germa- ny itself. In England the taste of the public had been kept faithfully true to the large and solid type of musical structure by the constant performance of oratorio. The master-works of Han- del and the Creation of Haydn had for many years been far more frequently produced in England than in any coun- try in Europa. So familiar had the wonderful choral movements of these works become, that in many a country village the assembled peasants or arti- sans might be heard practicing, with clear or cracked voice, the invocation to the Everlasting Doors, or the as~ cription by the Heavens of Glory to God, while every plain and plastered conventicle was doubly consecrated in its turti by the sound of the one great Hallelujah. In the large towns these works were known to a great propdrtion of the people of all classes. It was a grateful change for the work- man to pass from the thunder of looms and jennies to the more harmonious re- sonance of Handel, while the shop- keeper gladly betook himself for a Christmas treat to his twentieth hear- ing of the Messiah; and it is out of these circumstances that has arisen t.hat singular vocal efficiency which has given to the Lancashire chorus so wide a fame. But this interest and efficiency arose from the very narrowness of the field within which, up to that period, they could be displayed. handel was in ora- torio not only supreme, but was al- most alone. Besides Haydn, no other great composer took up an abiding po- sition wit.hin the sacred circle of scriptural drama. Mozart had written no oratorios. One movement only of Beethovens ]llount of Olivesthe Hallelujahhas ever seized upon the popular imagination, while the inge- niously modulated music of Spohrs Cruc~fixion and Last Judgment seems too thin and filmy to lodge within the common memory. It seemed, indeed, doubtful whether any composer could or would arise who might combine with the kreadth and body of Handelian ideas nIl the wonderful uses which the orchestra has developed in the last hun- dred years. The sway of Mendelssohns baton dissipated this doubt. St. Paul, The Hymn of Praise, and Eliijah appeared successively. They were felt to be emphatically new, yet great enough to he matched with the old. The special triumph of these works is, that they met with their earliest and fullest accept- ance in the country, where the stature of Handel was the inevitable standard applied to them. here at last was mu- sic which neither asked for any reduc- tion of the proportions of the temple of religious musical aspiration, nor set us to perform chamber devotions in a ca- thedral. Amidst allthose qualities of fullness, freshness, and finish which are more expressly elements of modern composition, was recognized that struc- tural grandeur, both in the successive movements and in the total dramntic design, which was the attribute of an older time. For such reasons these works were sure of a wider and heartit~r 193 Mendelssohn and his Music. [Aug., appreciation in England than any mu- sical compositions have ever or any- where met with on their first presenta- tion. Enthusiastic ovations for the compos- er, on conducting his works, show how the faculty of the country had been unconsciously trained for their recog- nition. It had hungered and thirsted for music of this express order. We well remember the scene in the Great Hall of one of the provincial cities, when, in April of the fatal year 1847, Mendelssohn in person unrolled, as it were, the groat harmonies of his Elijah before six thousand people, to most of whom the name and genius of Handel were familiar. The interest, amounting, indeed, to excitement, every- where displayed, was something Cu- rious and sug~estive to one who could so far free himself from the same feel- ing as to become an observer. Every member of the executing force, from the first ladies in front to the agi- tator of tympani in the remotest rear, seemed bent with earnest devotion on realizing the great artistic will which gleamed with regal power and courtesy from the dark eyes and pale face of the composer. A motion of a hand drew the great composite choral unity through transitions and shades of tone which no nicety of the conductors art or docility of the executive medium had ever pro- duced in our hearing. The whole vast area was charged with one emotion of wonder and delight. The dramatic interest of the scenes of drought and of rain seemed reproduced with a double significance. As regards sacred composition the heavens had long been as brass to laments and in- vocations but here at length were flue writer-floods ; and the great chorus of Thanks be to God resounded as if in its own existence were sufficient motive for the grateful adoration it embod- ied. But if in this sense Mendelssohn was the prophet instrumental in quenching so noble a thirst, the prophet, too, who, in the lan~uage addressed to him by Prince Albert in this very year, when surrounded by the Baal-worship of cor- rupted art, had been able by his genius arid science to preserve faithfully the worship of true arthe was no less the prophet (and where, alas! is his mantle?) destined to be too soon caught up from the sphere of his earthly labors, to be followed with sorrowing looks along the shining track of his translation. From this last visit to England he went, worn and weary, back to Ger- many. In Frankfort he met news of the sudden death of his sister, Madame Hensel, to whom he had always been ardently attached. He fell to the ground with a shriek, and though he afterwards rallied and even labored hard, because, as he often said to his wife, the time of rest was approaching for him, toothe blow was already struck upon his fine nervous system which was to shatter and destroy it. In October he wrote his last composition, a solemn melody to a night-song of Eichendorf, Departed is the Light of Day, and on the 4th of November he expired, in his thirty-ninth year. This event will be well remembered, even through the wild whirl of events revolutions and warswhich has filled the interval. In England,. for reasons already intimated, Mendelssohns death was felt by multitudes to he a personal sorrow. The saying, let who will make the laws of a nation if I may make its songs, was probably elicited by a perception of the relative amounts of influence involved in the two spheres, but it might also have been dictated by a foresight of the more tender regard which the very memory of the song- maker would awake after his songs were all made. When a philosopher, a statesman, or a writer dies, the nation mourns with a general and equable sorrow; but the emotion which follows to the grave a great master of song, if less general as being limited by conditions of facul- ty and cultureis deeper and more im- passioned. The gain of an invention, a law, or a victory, is recognized by the intellect but a new master-piece of musical art addresses itself direct to the soul. Fine music al~vays carries in it something of appeal to personal feeling, and is personally responded to in the enthusiasm its elicits. It embodies the affections even more than the mental power of the artist, and it is the affec- tions which it elicits and grasps. An- other statesman, as ivise as the last, may come and carry on his work; but, when Mendelssohn dies, an individual charm is gone clear out of the world, and can- not be renewed even by one greater than himself. Mendelssohn, too, died young, ul 1857.] Miendelssohn and his Music. 191 most as young as was Mozart at his death. In both cases, excessive appli- cation brou b ht on the weakness which prematurely destroyed them, and in both cases the power of genius waxed greater up to the very time when that destruc- tion arrived. The Elijah was to Men- delssohn what the Requiem was to Mo- zart, the crowning work on which were lavished the splendors of a matured and chastened imagination, and the resources of a consummate composing skill. The ancients piously accepted the death of youthful greatness as showing the love felt by the gods for it; and we might almost have dreamed that Men- delssohns spirit had been supernatu- rally sublimed int.o fitness for the recep- tion of harmonies nobler than his own, which ear hath not heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to con- ceive. But no such dream could he- guile the natural regret everywhere felt that the school of grand oratorio was not to be further enriched by a faculty which had as yet only had time to show its wonderful capabilities. With this painful sense of personal deprivation was mingled a boding fear that Mendelssohns death was the death of the greatest productive era the art of music has ever known. This fear has derived nothing but confirmation from the interval that has since elapsed. It may be premature to presume on the exhaustion of the soil which ha~ yielded such continuous and splendid fruit, hut for the present, at least, the harvest is over. In music, as in literature, we have comae upon the critical age, which mnvariably follows the creative. The eye is turned to the past, and the ear follows the same direction. We have now only too much leisure to collect and collate our classics without the atten- tion being distracted by competitive novelties. The life and labors of Mendelssohn thus were ended. In glancing at the labors in relation to the life, we are first struck with the vastness of their quan- city. A hundred works, many of them f the fullest proportions, testify to an industry almost unparalleled. But, in- deed, composition was not the task it was the instinctive occupation of Mendelssohns mind. At all times, and in all places, he was engaged in the con- ception or development of musical ideas. This process was incessantly carried on during his numerous journeys, and at every resting-place, his first require- ment was a table, that the resu ts might he securely noted. Music wasi at once the medium and material of his thoughts, and those thoughts flowed with a free- dom only less marvelous than their symmetry and intrinsic worth. It is said that his music to the Anti- gone was the work of only eleven days a feat that equals Handels alleged composition of the Messiah in three weeks. He was present in the Bir- mingham Town Hall on an occasion when Handels Coronation Anthem was, with other works, to be performed. The concert was already begun, when it was discovered that a recitative, the words of which appeared in the text-books given to the public, was omitted from the part-copies. Noticing the perplex- ity of the managers, Mendelssohn quiet- ly said, Wait a little, I will help you ; and sitting down, composed within half an hour a recitative with complete or- chestral accompaniments, which were recopied, distributed, and while yet wet from the pen, were played at sight. How spontaneously not only his thoughts and feelings, but even impres- sions derived from scenery, took with him a melodic form, is shown in the origin of his finest overture. On his return from Scotland, in 1829, his sis- ters entreated him to tell them some- thing of the Hebrides. That cannot be told, said he, it can only be play- ed ; and, seating himself at the piano, he improvised the beautiful theme which he afterwards expanded into the Orer- ture to Fingals (ave. The Songs without Words, which are now amongst the most popular parlor music iii the world, had a similar origin in the ha- bitual necessity for musical expression in place of verbal. The apparent ano- maly involved in their titles ceases, when it is remembered that these charm- ing wordless lyrics were really the na- tive language of the composer, and that he is in them as truly descriptive, thoughtful, impassioned, or even satir- ical, as if he had held the pea of Barry Cornwall or Heinrich home. rJhat they convey varied impressions to dif- ferent minds, by no means implies that the ideas embodied in them by the com- poser were not clear and specific. What they mean, we should he sorry here to guess, with the knowledge that most musical readers have somewhere near them some more pleasant interpretei 192 Mr. Grables Night with Memnon. ~Aug., holding the known credentials of sen- sibility and fancy! The Life of Mendelssohn is yet un- written. Sketches of its chief events have al)peared; but the lineaments of the individual man are yet in the nim- bus of personal recollection and hoarded correspondence. Mr. Chorleys book on Modern German Music is delightful in every sense, and there are indications in the portions of it dedicated to the memory of his illustrious friend, that he could write a Life of Mendelssohn worthy of the subject, and worthy to be placed on the same shelf with Holmess L?fe of Mozart. We believe that when, by his or some other truth- full, skillful, and affectionate hand, this task is accomplishedwhen we are made to see the Mendelssohn of every- day word and act, and are enriched with his letterswe shall stand face to face with a manly, geniaX and refined na- ture, having little of the eccentric and aggressive tendency which creates ad- venture, but animated with a healthy enthusiasm, and calmed with the con- sciousness of beneficent power. His life will be found true to the lofty spirit of his labors, and the man will appear as great as the artist. Well was he named Felix, to whom it was given, in so short a life, to contribute so much to the happiness of many future lives, and in whom experience of many joys and sympathy with many sorrows, coOper- ated with an imagination rare in its re- alizing force, to keep unbroken the groat circle of his power in artistic expres- sion. MR. GRUBBES NIGHT WITH MEMNON. IN the far west of Londonpreserv- ing many traces of its original char- acteristics, amidst the wide expanse of architectural innovations which are continually springing up around it there is a sober and antiquated, but withal respectable, locality, known to those travelers whose enterprise has led them thus far into the occidental suburbs, as Brompton. It is a district principally inhabited by theatricals, literati, and small annuitants; and is much esteemed on account of the salu- brity of its climate, the mildness of its society, and the economy of its house- hold arrangements. Its chief natural curiosities are tea-parties and old ladies; and its overland journey to Lon- don is performed in omnibuses, unless the route by water is preferred. But this is somewhat circuitousCadogan pier, which is the nearest port, standing in the same relation to Brompton as Civita Vecehia does to Rome. Mr. Withers Grubbe, who was an old inhabitant of this pleasant village, re- sided in a modest tenement, situate at the edge of the great Fulham road. His establishment comprised himself and his housekeepera staid woman, of matronly appearancefrom which circumstance it may be fairly presumed that he was either a widower or a. bache- Icr; but the uncertainty as to which of these two orders of single life he came under will be quite removed, when we state that he was an antiquary, an entomologist, and a general natural philosopher, somewhat resembling a cocoa-nutbeing shriveled in exter- nal appearance, hut possessing a good heart or kernel, and not entirely desti- tute of the milk of human kindness. As his favorite pursuits had been, from time immemorial, at variance with matrimony, lie had never taken unto himself a wife. Once, and once only, did his friends speak of his falling in love. It was in the Park, one bright frosty morning, when he saw a lady whose cloak somewhat resembled the delicate tiatings of the privet moth; but this lepidopterous attachment was very transient, and the next chrysalis of the Sphynx Atropos, or number of the Gentlemans Magazine, that came to hand, immediately banished it from his mind. And he was an occasional correspond- ent to the afore-named humorous publication. He had sent them a draw- ing of the old key of his dust-bin, and a dissertation upon several worn-out brass button-tops he had from time to time picked up in his walks, believing them to be ancient coins; as well as a plan of the Roman encampment on the Birmingham railway, aiid other interest-

Mr. Grubbe's Night with Memnon 192-197

192 Mr. Grables Night with Memnon. ~Aug., holding the known credentials of sen- sibility and fancy! The Life of Mendelssohn is yet un- written. Sketches of its chief events have al)peared; but the lineaments of the individual man are yet in the nim- bus of personal recollection and hoarded correspondence. Mr. Chorleys book on Modern German Music is delightful in every sense, and there are indications in the portions of it dedicated to the memory of his illustrious friend, that he could write a Life of Mendelssohn worthy of the subject, and worthy to be placed on the same shelf with Holmess L?fe of Mozart. We believe that when, by his or some other truth- full, skillful, and affectionate hand, this task is accomplishedwhen we are made to see the Mendelssohn of every- day word and act, and are enriched with his letterswe shall stand face to face with a manly, geniaX and refined na- ture, having little of the eccentric and aggressive tendency which creates ad- venture, but animated with a healthy enthusiasm, and calmed with the con- sciousness of beneficent power. His life will be found true to the lofty spirit of his labors, and the man will appear as great as the artist. Well was he named Felix, to whom it was given, in so short a life, to contribute so much to the happiness of many future lives, and in whom experience of many joys and sympathy with many sorrows, coOper- ated with an imagination rare in its re- alizing force, to keep unbroken the groat circle of his power in artistic expres- sion. MR. GRUBBES NIGHT WITH MEMNON. IN the far west of Londonpreserv- ing many traces of its original char- acteristics, amidst the wide expanse of architectural innovations which are continually springing up around it there is a sober and antiquated, but withal respectable, locality, known to those travelers whose enterprise has led them thus far into the occidental suburbs, as Brompton. It is a district principally inhabited by theatricals, literati, and small annuitants; and is much esteemed on account of the salu- brity of its climate, the mildness of its society, and the economy of its house- hold arrangements. Its chief natural curiosities are tea-parties and old ladies; and its overland journey to Lon- don is performed in omnibuses, unless the route by water is preferred. But this is somewhat circuitousCadogan pier, which is the nearest port, standing in the same relation to Brompton as Civita Vecehia does to Rome. Mr. Withers Grubbe, who was an old inhabitant of this pleasant village, re- sided in a modest tenement, situate at the edge of the great Fulham road. His establishment comprised himself and his housekeepera staid woman, of matronly appearancefrom which circumstance it may be fairly presumed that he was either a widower or a. bache- Icr; but the uncertainty as to which of these two orders of single life he came under will be quite removed, when we state that he was an antiquary, an entomologist, and a general natural philosopher, somewhat resembling a cocoa-nutbeing shriveled in exter- nal appearance, hut possessing a good heart or kernel, and not entirely desti- tute of the milk of human kindness. As his favorite pursuits had been, from time immemorial, at variance with matrimony, lie had never taken unto himself a wife. Once, and once only, did his friends speak of his falling in love. It was in the Park, one bright frosty morning, when he saw a lady whose cloak somewhat resembled the delicate tiatings of the privet moth; but this lepidopterous attachment was very transient, and the next chrysalis of the Sphynx Atropos, or number of the Gentlemans Magazine, that came to hand, immediately banished it from his mind. And he was an occasional correspond- ent to the afore-named humorous publication. He had sent them a draw- ing of the old key of his dust-bin, and a dissertation upon several worn-out brass button-tops he had from time to time picked up in his walks, believing them to be ancient coins; as well as a plan of the Roman encampment on the Birmingham railway, aiid other interest- 1857.] Mr. Grubbes Night with Memnon. 193 ing articles, the majority of which were declined, with thanks, by the venerable and undying Mr. Urban. He belonged also to most of the learned and scientific bodies, to all of whom he read the rejected contributions, so that his time was pretty well oc- cupied, and more especially in the spring; for then his larvce and auretite broke forth into a new life, and there was such a buzzing, and fluttering, and pinning, and labeling all over the house, with intrusive butterflies getting into the bed-rooms, and strange caterpillars walking up and down stairs, that people of ordinary nerves and uninterested in insect architecture were afraid to go into the house. But he cherished all his living things with singular affection, even to the moths which had fattened upon his waistcoats, and the cockroaches which ran about his kitchen; although Mrs. Weston, the housekeeper, could never understand that the .former insects only did any mischief in their first stage of existence, and that the latter were to be looked upon as sacred things, from the high veneration they were held in amongst the ancient Egyptians. The poor, ignorant woman, in the darkness of her intellect, classed them all as warmint. The great aim of Mr. Grubbes labors was to get up some paper that should produce a striking sensation in the learned world, by the novel facts that it might disclosea consummation which had never yet arrived, for his most interesting discoveries had always been forestalled. To this great end did he consume his midnight patent stearine; for this did he burn holes in all his carpets with the contents of his galvanic battery, and get phosphorus under his nails, or take all the color from his table-covers; in pi-osecuting this endeavor, by rubbing his buffer of black lead over cartridge-paper, laid upon engraved stones aud brass tablets, to take the impression, was he three times apprehended for Swing, and once for sacrilege. But hitherto he had never produced any extraordinary impression beyond that which his appearance created with the rustics; and although he was a walking catalogue of the British Mu- seumfar more copious and elaborate than those hired l~y country visitors at contiguous fishmongers. and public- voi~. x.13 houseshe found every object therein had been so often and so minutely de- scribed, that nothing fresh was left to dilate upon. And this opinion for a time subdued his energy, until one even- ing he was present at the unrolling of a mummy. lie listened with intense attention to the remarks of the lecturer, and envied him the proud position he was for the time placed in, as the descriptive link between the present and the long-past epochs. But when the ceremony was finished, and Mr. Grubbe found, upon reviewing the lecture, that our acquaintance with the ancient Egyptians extended just far enough to show that we knew nothing at all about them, a fresh chain of re- search presented itself to his mind, and from that time every other pursuit was merged in the depths of the Great Pyramid, or perched upon the edge of Belzonis sarcophagus. He made a mummy of his favorite cat; called his abode Sphynx-cottage; and allowed the kitchen to swarm with cockroaches which he called scarabwi, and Mrs. Weston black beadles more than ever. Things stood thus, when, one sultry July morning, a learned friend called to beg his company in a visit to the Docks, to view some wonderful organic remains, not yet landed, which a ship had brought from a distant country. Mr. Grubbe immediately prepared for the excursion; and, after having drawn an odd pair of boots upon the wrong legs in his absence of mind, as well as omitted to take off his duffel dressing- gown, he gave himself up to the care of Mrs. Weston, who finally pronounced~ him fit to appear in the public streets.. He accordingly started with his friend,. taking the omnibus to the Bank, whence they proceeded to the Docks on foot~ saving the other sixpence; and beguil- ing the journey with many curious~ arguments and opinions upon ichthyo~- sauri and the blue has clay. The inspection of the fossils was- most satisfactory, and they were pro- nounced highly interesting, the more so because several of them were per- fectly incomprehensible; and notwith- standing the confined amid heated places. in which they were stowed~, Mv. Grubbe poked . about amongst the packing~ cases, covered with dust and perspira- tion, and dragging his friend after him~ until every available object had been 194 Mr Grubbes Night with Mennzon. [Aug., investigated, and they emerged from the hold into the free air. A fresh treat now awaited him. His friend was attached to everything old equally with himself, and old wine possessed no insignificant share of his affections. With praiseworthy fore- sight he had provided a tasting-order as a crowning finish to their excursion; and having raised Mr. Grubbes curi- osity by mysterious hints of pipes and casks that had long slumbered in cool excavations helow the level of the Thames, and wine more generous, oily, and sparkling than ever came into the dealers hands, they were not long in furnishing themselves with inches of candle in split laths, and following their guidea priest of Bacehus in highlows and corduroysinto the bowels of the Docks. How long they lingered therein we are ashamed to state; nor will we tell the world too ruthlessly how many casks were broached by the relentless gimlet; how the wine leaped bright and cream- ing from the wood; how the glasses held twice the ordinary quantity, and how they were even rinsed out with claret and madeira, which was thrown about amongst the sawdust like water. Neither will we betray the number of samples tasted by the visitors; nor do more than just hint at Mr. Grubbes slapping the cellarman on the hack for a good fellow, and endeavoring to strike up an ancient Bacchanalian melody, sung by Dignum in his young days. We only know that this subterranean sojourn was protracted to a period we blush to chronicle, delayed, no doubt, by a learned disquisition, poured forth by Mr. Grubbe, upon the home-made wines of Thebes, which ended just as they got to the top of the staircase, and stood once more, blinking and confused, in the glaring sunshine of a July after- noon. And terrible was the effect of the hot atinosph~re upon their tem- peraments before a few minutes had passed. Whiz-z-z-z-z-z went their eyes and brains altogether; the ships flew round and round like the revolving- boats at Greenwich fair, and the ware- houses heaved and rolled as the billows of the sea. It was with the greatest difficulty, amidst this general bouleversenrent of surrounding objects, that the two men of science staggered to the gate, and deposited themselves in the first omnibus that passed. They had nQt particularly inquired in what direction it was going; and, in consequence, after much travel- ing, Mr. Grubbe was somewhat sur- prised to find the vehicle stop in Tottenham-court-read, when he ex- pected to be at the White Horse Cellar. But he was in the humor for treating any mishap that might have occurred with exceeding levity; and finding that the locality suited his friend just as well, even better, than Piccadilly, he wished him good-by very affectionately, and took advantage of its proximity to pay a visit to his favorite British Mu- seum, partly in the belief that its cool tranquillity would allay his cerebral excitement. He left his inseparable gingham tim brellawhich answered the double put pose of keeping off the rain when oper~ and serving as a portmanteau of collect- ed curiosities when shutwith the por- ter upon entering; and then turned his steps towards the. Egyptian gallery, which was his usual lounge, still cher- ishing some vague notion that his skull had turned into a bag of hydrogen, so elastic and vivacious was his step. There were, as usual, a great many people gaping about and asking foolish questions of the attendant; s~ine mix- ing up the sphynx with the fossils they had seen, and asking if it ever was alive ; others feeling rather afraid of going too near the mummies by them- selves; and others lost in mental argu- ments as to whether the colossal fist of red granite was a thunderbolt or the hand of a petrified giant; together with a great many ill-conducted little-boys, with no veneration for antiquities, who laughed at the different objects as they would have done at any of the wondrous creations in a pantomime. Heedless of the visitors, Mr. Grubbe was soon lost in mighty speculations upon the mysterious productions by which he was surrounded; and so con- tinued until the constant shuffling of feet and increasing influx of stran gets, whose inane remarks grated upon his learned ears, drove him from the block upon which he was sitting, to some more remote corner of the gallery.. Ensconcing himself in a recess behind one of the enormous heads, and screened by a sarcophagus, he fell into a fresh train of intense thought upon hierogly- phics in general, and those of mummies in particular. To this succeeded a con 1857.] Mr. Grubbes Night with Memnon. 19~ fused picture of wine-vaults, pyramids, docks, claret-casks, and megatheria; and finally, overcome by the influence of heat, fatigue, and the tasting-order, he fell fast asleep. How long he slumbered remains to this day a mystery, and probably ever will do so. But when he awoke all was still and quiet as the interior of the Theban tombs; the gallery was entirely deserted, and the moon was pouring a flood of light through the windows, which fell upon the statues and remains, rendering them still more cold and ghastly. In an instant the truth broke upon the unhappy antiquary; he had been over- looked when the Museum was cleared at seven oclock, and was locked inbolted, barred, almost hermetically shut up in the gallery, in the most remote part of the building, with nothing but stony monsters and crumbling mortality for his associates! Chilled to the heart with terror, despair, and the reaction of his previous excitement, he started from his corner with the intention of trying the doors, when his movement was ar- rested by the chime of a clock, lie knew the sound well; it was the bell of St. Georges, Bloomsbury, and it pro- claimed the hour of twelve. And he was there alonealone, at midnight, in the Bgyptiau chamber of the British Museum! In a frenzy of terror he rushed to- wards the large doors, in the hope of finding them open ; but they were fast closed, and he rattled the handles until the whole building rang again with the echoes. Hark! what was that sound? The echo had died away, and was now renewed, although he had desisted from his impotent attempts to gain some mode of egress. It sounded from above, and now came nearer and nearer, louder and louder, like the deadened and regular beat of muffled drums. There were footsteps toohe could plainly distin- guish them, in audible progression, coming down stairs. And now a fearful spectacle met his horrified gaze. The immense marble scarabceus on the floor of the gallery vibrated with incipient animation; then it stretched forth its huge feelers and opened its massy wings, like a newly- born insect trying the properties of its novel limbs; and next, with the heavy cumbrous motion of a tortoise, it crept across the floor, throwing back the moonbeams from its polished surface, towards the principal entrance of the gallery. Tramp, tramp, tramponward came the noise as of a great assembl.y, the drums still keeping up their monoto- nous accompaniment, and at last they approached close to the door, which quivered immediately afterwards with three loud knocks upon its panels from without. As the hapless Mr. Grubbe shrank still further into the recess, the large beetle scuffled nearer to the door, and then, raising one of its hideous feelers, it turned the handle. The gigantic granite first moved by itself towards the entrance, and repeated the signal on the panels; and, at the last blow, a sound like the low rumbling of thunder echoed through the edifice, and the doors flew open, admitting a glare of purple light, that for a few moments blinded the terrified intruder, whilst on either side the Memnon and the Sphynx re- treated back against the wall, to allow room for the dismal cort~ge that ap- proached. The whole collection of mummy-cases in the rooms above had given up their inmates, who now glided down the staircase, one after another, to join their ancient compatriots of the gallery be- low, lifting up the covers of their painted tombs, and stretching forth their pitched and blackened arms to welcome them. And next, the curious monsters with the birds heads, who, up to this moment, had remained patiently sitting against the side of the room with their hands upon their knees, rose courteously to salute their visitors. The light which filled the apartment, although proceeding from no visible point, grew brighter and brighter until it assumed the brilliancy of oxy-hydro- gen, and when the last of the dusty and bandaged guests had arrived, the doors closed violently, and the orgies began. The figures in the pictures became ani- mated and descended from the tablets, being by far the most attractive portion of the company, either male or female, as they were semblances of life, bearing amphoree of the choicest wine from the vineyards of Memphis; strange birds in long striped tunics, and stranger crea- tions, whose shapes inherited an attribute of every class of the animal kingdom, acted as attendants, and obsequiously waited upon the superior deities; whilst the greatest feature of the gallery, the 196 Mr. Grubbes Night with Memnon. [Aug., mystic. awe inspiring Memnon, moved in stately progress to the end of the room, and commenced pouring forth that wondrous harmony with which at sunrise and twilight he welcomed his early worshipers. Then commenced an unearthly galop- adea dreary carnival of the dead, to the music of their master, accompanied by the strange sounds of instruments brought by the mummies most inclined to conviviality, from the glass-cases up stairs. But the strangest sight in the whole spectacle was the curious way in which Mr. Grubbe, despite his fears, perceived that they mingled ancient with modern manners, when the dance came to an end. Some of the animated Egyptians be- took themselves to pipes and beer; others brought large aerolites from the different rooms and began to play at ninepins with the inferior household gods of blue glazed clay; one young Memphian even went so far as to thrust an enormous hook, as big as an anchor, through the body of the scarabceus, and then spin him at the end of a rope about the room; and, finally, they wheeled a sarcophagus into the centre of the gal- lery, and filled it with what Mr. Grubbes nose told him was excellent mixed punch, which they tippled until the eyes of Memnon twinkled with conviviality, as he snuffed up the goodly aroma; and at length, forgetting his dignity alto- gether, volunteered to play the Aurora waltzes (in compliment of course to his mother) out of his head. The rnonu- mental punch-bowl was directly pushed on one side, und they began to dance again, Mr. Grubbe, getting gradually more and more excited by the music, until, unable to contain himself any longer, he rushed from his recess, and seizing a fair young daughter of the Nile round the waist, was in an instant whirling round in the throng of deities, mummies, hieroglyphics, ibises, and anomalous creations who composed the assembly. The hours flew along like joyous minutes, and still the unearthly waltz ~as continued with persisting energy, until Mr. Grubbes brain became giddy and bewildered. His strength also began to fail in spite of the attractions of his young Memphienne, whose soft downy cheeks, roguish kissable lips, and super- naturally-sparkling eyes, had for a time made him forget his age. He requested her to stop in their wild gyrations, but she heeded him notbreathless and ex- hausted, he was pulled round and round, whilst the Memnonian orchestra played itself louder and louder, until at length, losing all power, he fell down in tho midst of the dancers. Twenty others, who had been twirlipg onwards, not perceiving their prostrate companion, immediately lost their foot- ing; and, finally, the whole assembly, like so many bent cards, giddy with wine and excitement, bundled one over the other, the unfortunate antiquary being the undermost of the party. In vain he struggled to be freeeach moment tho pressure of the superincumbent Egyp- tians increased; until, in a last extremity, unable to breathe, bruised by their legs and arms, and half suffocated with mum- my-dust, he gave a few fruitless gasps for air, and then became insensible. It was broad daylight when he once more opened his eyes; and the motes were dancing in the bright morning sun- beams that darted into the gallery. There were sounds of life and motion too, on every side (although no one had as yet entered the apartment), and the rumble of distant vehicles in the streets. It was some little time before Mr. Grubbe could collect his ideas for his brain was still slightly cloudedhis lips, also, were parched, and his eyeballs smarting with the revelry of the night. But there he still was, in the room, surrounded by his late company, though they had now resumed their usual situa- tions: the Memnon and Sphynx were vis-d-vis, and the scarabeeus in his cus- tomary place, as cold and inanimate as ever; whilst the gigantic fist had once more taken possession of its pedestal, and the gentlemen with the curious heads were sitting with their hands upon their knees in their wonted gravity. But, notwithstanding all this chill reality, the antiquarys mind was in a tumult of ex- citement. The dim undying magic of ancient Egypt was still in force, un- conquered by time or distance. He had been admitted to the orgies of Memnon; he had watched the revelries and man- ners of the hitherto mysterious race; above all, he had gleaned information for.a paper that Would bring the Society of Antiquaries at his feet in wondrous veneration! The doors were, ere long, thrown open, and Mr. Grubbe left the gallery unnoticed. On arriving at Brompton, 1857.1 Two Incidents of Travel. 197 he found Mrs. Weston in a state of ex- treme terror and exhaustion, having watched the whole night for her masters return, that worthy gentleman never having passed so long a period from home. He retired immediately to his stu~dy, and labored until dusk with unceasing industry; and from that period Egypt alone occupied his thoughts. He thought of nothing else by day, and dreamed of that suhject only by night. The sub- ject grew beneath his hands and ideas, and what with the circumstances he imagined, and those he dreamed about for in his labors he ever confounded them togetherthe work is still unfinished; and he will not give it to the world in an imperfect condition, although his most intimate friends already fear that his ap- plication is affecting his brain. But, when his task is concluded, great will be his triumph: he will have furnish- edat least such is his expectationa key to all the mystic customs of the early Nile; the hidden lore of Memphis will be unraveled to the million; he will walk abroad a thing for men to gaze at and reverence; and his name will go down to posterity in company with Mem- non and the Great Pyramid. These are his own anticipations: his intimate friends have only one hope that he will be spared from Bedlam sufficiently long to perfect his colossal undertaking; and that on no account will he be induced any more tei venture, with a tasting-order, to the Docks. TWO INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL. I, THE BABUS NAUTCH. S ALAAM, Sahib; (hittee, Sahib Chittee hail said old Karlee, hand- ing me a note as he popped the cork of my soda-water bottle, preparatory to pouring its carbonated contents upon two lumps of ice in a tumbler, accord- ing to my every-morning, bedside pro- gramme; for Karlee was more regu- lar in his habits than I, and the strict system .~f his bulatta-pawnee (as he called soda-water) libations was more to his credit than mine. Old Karlee was a picturesque type of the bearer caste. Taller than he seemedbeing permanently bent by the bearers professional habit of incessant salnaming; slender-limbed; well-featured; mild-eyed, and soft-spoken; mahogany- hued, and gray-moustached; simple, but appropriate in his attiremodish as to his cumberbund, and orthodox as to his turban; of manners most per- suasivehumble, patient, deprecatory, quietly remonstrating polite withal, and versed in the etiquette of servitude assigned to his caste; a faithful, pains- taking heathen; gratefully attached to the Sahib, in consideration of kind- nesses fewer than his deserts; a care- ful, thrifty fellow in the Sahibs.interest; a gatherer up of loose rupees, a sewer on of truant buttons, a famous groon~ of the wardrobeindeed a motherly man, a man to be loved from the antipodes, long years beyond a last farewell. Lord, keep my memory of him green! I would the child of my sowed wild oats might caress his silver moustache at this present writing. Chittec means note ; the word is a childish Hindostanee attempt at the pronunciation of sheeta monosyl- lable impracticable by its consonants to the soft Indian tongue. The present chittee was an extraordinary, quite ~ splendid missive, done long-wise on yellow paper redolent of sandal wood and significant of a complimentary oc casion. Within, an emblematic wood- cut in the shape of a picture-frame such a thing as you might hew with broad axe out of heavy ship-timber hung around with nondescript objects from the botanical kingdom, inclosee what the management of a Bowery ball would call a card of admission : Mahin4 Laul Press. I liajindur Itadakant Ghose presents his respectful compliments to Ma. IIIClIARn Roz and requests the favor of his company to a Tviusical Entertainment at his House on Wednesday the 25th Inst. at ~ past 8 oclock p. in. for the celebration of the wedding of his grandson. Calcutta, Simla. 23d Feby. 1852

N. F. F., N. Two Incidents of Travel 197-205

1857.1 Two Incidents of Travel. 197 he found Mrs. Weston in a state of ex- treme terror and exhaustion, having watched the whole night for her masters return, that worthy gentleman never having passed so long a period from home. He retired immediately to his stu~dy, and labored until dusk with unceasing industry; and from that period Egypt alone occupied his thoughts. He thought of nothing else by day, and dreamed of that suhject only by night. The sub- ject grew beneath his hands and ideas, and what with the circumstances he imagined, and those he dreamed about for in his labors he ever confounded them togetherthe work is still unfinished; and he will not give it to the world in an imperfect condition, although his most intimate friends already fear that his ap- plication is affecting his brain. But, when his task is concluded, great will be his triumph: he will have furnish- edat least such is his expectationa key to all the mystic customs of the early Nile; the hidden lore of Memphis will be unraveled to the million; he will walk abroad a thing for men to gaze at and reverence; and his name will go down to posterity in company with Mem- non and the Great Pyramid. These are his own anticipations: his intimate friends have only one hope that he will be spared from Bedlam sufficiently long to perfect his colossal undertaking; and that on no account will he be induced any more tei venture, with a tasting-order, to the Docks. TWO INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL. I, THE BABUS NAUTCH. S ALAAM, Sahib; (hittee, Sahib Chittee hail said old Karlee, hand- ing me a note as he popped the cork of my soda-water bottle, preparatory to pouring its carbonated contents upon two lumps of ice in a tumbler, accord- ing to my every-morning, bedside pro- gramme; for Karlee was more regu- lar in his habits than I, and the strict system .~f his bulatta-pawnee (as he called soda-water) libations was more to his credit than mine. Old Karlee was a picturesque type of the bearer caste. Taller than he seemedbeing permanently bent by the bearers professional habit of incessant salnaming; slender-limbed; well-featured; mild-eyed, and soft-spoken; mahogany- hued, and gray-moustached; simple, but appropriate in his attiremodish as to his cumberbund, and orthodox as to his turban; of manners most per- suasivehumble, patient, deprecatory, quietly remonstrating polite withal, and versed in the etiquette of servitude assigned to his caste; a faithful, pains- taking heathen; gratefully attached to the Sahib, in consideration of kind- nesses fewer than his deserts; a care- ful, thrifty fellow in the Sahibs.interest; a gatherer up of loose rupees, a sewer on of truant buttons, a famous groon~ of the wardrobeindeed a motherly man, a man to be loved from the antipodes, long years beyond a last farewell. Lord, keep my memory of him green! I would the child of my sowed wild oats might caress his silver moustache at this present writing. Chittec means note ; the word is a childish Hindostanee attempt at the pronunciation of sheeta monosyl- lable impracticable by its consonants to the soft Indian tongue. The present chittee was an extraordinary, quite ~ splendid missive, done long-wise on yellow paper redolent of sandal wood and significant of a complimentary oc casion. Within, an emblematic wood- cut in the shape of a picture-frame such a thing as you might hew with broad axe out of heavy ship-timber hung around with nondescript objects from the botanical kingdom, inclosee what the management of a Bowery ball would call a card of admission : Mahin4 Laul Press. I liajindur Itadakant Ghose presents his respectful compliments to Ma. IIIClIARn Roz and requests the favor of his company to a Tviusical Entertainment at his House on Wednesday the 25th Inst. at ~ past 8 oclock p. in. for the celebration of the wedding of his grandson. Calcutta, Simla. 23d Feby. 1852 193 Two incidents of Travel. [Aug., So, Karlee, the BaIA gives a nautch. Acha, Sahib ! burra nautch mighty bigvery fine; will have con- tinue three dayplenty sahib there burra sahib (upper-ten)----.-Burra Lard Sahib (the Governor-General). Babd mighty richbig Melican (American) banianlarge house, very large, all same Lard Sahibs houseplenty lao rupeeplenty nautch girl, plenty tom- tom, plenty conjure-wallah (jugglers), plenty isherry (wine), plenty brandee pawnee, plenty cheeroot, plenty every- thing. Very proper Sabib go; Wilde Sahib go, Wilton Sahib, Lode Sahib, Follin Sahiball Melican Sahib go Babft big Melican banian ! Truly, Karlees eloquence was per- suasive. Here was no vulgar promise of Bengalee magnificence and hospi- table profusion. I knew the Great American Banian ; his person was said to be not fatter than his purse his family pride imposing, his love of display a passion, his airs nabobish, his residence palatial, his retinue an army, his repasts sumptuous, the fam- ily jewels astonishing, his grandson a pampered pet, and himselfthe Great American Banian. Karlee, we will go. The cold season was just closing, somewhat earlier than usual. Punka fans were coming into play again; the tatties, or wetted mats, were beginning to reappear in verandahs. Old Bux- soo, the Khansamnan, had thrown off his quilted blue jacket, with all its vanity of crimson lining and shiny but- tons, for nine months to come. The fierce durwan at the gate had unmuffled his fine military head, and giving his regulation whiskers and moustaches to the air once more, no longer looked like a reduced statue of the Great Mogul as he appeared to Bishop Heber. Palkee-bearers, who had dwelt in shiv- ering decencies for three months, were stripping to the buff, and trying their suppleness for a set-to with the sun. Tricksy monkeys, recovering their agility with their tropic comfort, were catching not yet limber flies on veran- dahs; mina-birds in bamboo cages on walls were vociferating qui-hi! qui- hi! with leveling irreverence to every passer, careless whether he were high brabmin or vilest pariah; and astute adjutantsthose pampered scaven- gersthat had stood on one long leg in isolated and gymnastic wretchedness till the observer might well have fancied they would grow so, now stalked along parapets and the railings of roofs with airs as stately as though claiming in their bipedness proud community with man, and looking abroad over the fresh- ly steaming land, regaled their nostrils with the uprising fragrance of garbage. Cook & Co.s is the Tattersalls of India. Twelve hundred horses stand in their stalls at once; and their crack turn-outs, from the most modest of saddle-cobs to a four-in-hand of sump- tuous Arabs with bawling syces in blue and yellow livery, are in lively demand by fast strangers who would make a splendid dash on the Esplanade, to as- tonish the Chee-cheesas the half- castes are calledor take the fancies of romantic French maidens in excur- sions to Chandernagore. Toward dusk on the 25th, ten of the blue and yellow syces held by the heads ten well-groomed Arabs, attached to as many neat buggies with their tops down, at the corner of Sircar Lane and Cossitollab. A score of young Ameri- cans, who had reason to be satisfied if their horses were but half as fast as themselves, waited, whip in hand, in front of the go-downs. Around them a bustling crowd of natives vociferated. Chaprasseys, or footmen, who came from the Babd with his compliments and competing proffers of service, to show the way, and clear the narrow, in- tricate and thronged bazaars along the line of processionor rather, course; link-men with flaring bamboo-joints, fed with petroleum; bearers, solicitous and vigilant, bringing to this Sahib his handkerchief, to that his porte-mon- naie, and to another, his cloth capin place of the solar bat, unseasonable after night-fallor his warm pea-jacket, in forethought of the chilliness of the dawn; syces, with the true instinct of the Oriental varlet, bullying the rabble in a polyglot of dialects, and superla- tively glorifying the Sahibslike Eo- thens donkey-boys in Cairo, or the garree-boys at Singapore. Hi, teem junglee-waUah; teem banchut !hi, hi, teem soea, teem chota sooa !jou !jou! geldie jou 1Sahib hai! Lard Sahib hai! jou ! Ho, you drunken loafer, you blackguard, get out of the way on the right! Ho, you pig, you young rascal pig, get out of the way on the left! Quick! jump quick, jump 1857.] Two tncidents of Travel. 199 quick! for this Sahib comesthis rich, strong and terrible nobleman comes he comes! he comes! And so we whirled and rattled, with infernal hubbub; the chaprasseys and linkmen shouting as they ran before us, the syces still bawling as they hung on, by tooth and nail, behindand all to astonish the denizens of that shabby quarter, whom the flashing cortege did flutter exceedingly. Men laughed and shouted, women screamed and grabbed for loose children, and youngsters of every sex, size, complexion, and degree of nakedness scrambled and yelled. But safely enough, nevertheless for the munificent and careful Babfi had brilliantly illuminated every house along the route with pretty lampswe sped through the unfragrant concourse, and the distracting din, and the bewildering glare past the close, silent, and mys- terious dens of the Jewish quarter, whose vacant verandabs, too decorous by half, made the place suspicious by their very airs of innocence; through China Bazaar, and past long lines of chow- chow stalls, with their parti-colored and fantastic balloon-like lanterns, and their queer caudated people-pleasant rascals, Omnibus-mongers, cordial and pre- possessing, but very slyscolding, sing- ing, laughing, laughing, singing, scold- ing, altogether and all at once, forever and forever; past the substantial and demure go-downs of prominent Parsees, rich, respectable, reserved and tomantic; past the neater, cooler, sweeter bazaars of the Armenians, who deal in silks, and Canton crape, and pina goods, and Cashmere shawls, and Seersuckerfrom whose green-latticed balconies above, low, mu- sical laughter and whispered songs, and the provoking tinkle of muffled guitars, came down like the soft sprinkling of April showers at twilight; past the steaming, lamp-smoked, fetid dens of Bengalee peddlers, sickening with the mixed disgust of opium pipes, and rancid ghee, and mangy pariah dogs. And so we sped laughing, and shout- ing merrily to one anothernow grazing with buzzing wheel, as our horses shied from a sudden yell, or fiercer array of lights, or the red flash of a petroleum fire, the pit-falls of stone ditches on either side; now stinging with our whips the bare loins of some insolent or lazy scamp who dared to seem regardless of our haste; now dispersing with free and gallant salutations a balcony-full of dim daughters of Israel, upon whom, round a sharp corner, we had come un- awaresand so we reached the Babcis lodge. If I were called upon to describe that scene of distracting hullabaloo and scram- ble and glare, I could find only the im- perfect comparison of an opuim sale at the Exchange in Tank Square; and that can be likened to nothing in the worlds hur- ly-burlies, sacred or profane, but the daft jargon and incoherent Kilkenny- catness of the Tower of Babel, when masons and joiners, confounded into fiends, threw down their tools, and tore their hair, and foamed; and, with red eyes, and swollen temples, hoarsely be- rated one another for drunkards and dazed fools, and rolled on the ground in witsendy desperation, and cried for their dear universal tongue, which, like Leigh Hunts pig in Smithfield Market, had broke away from them, and would be sure to run down all manner of streets. Winking our eyes and shielding our ears, we hurried through the gate-lodge, only staying for a moment to bestow the customary bucksheesh on the handsome durwan, all-glorious in his authority and hospitality. Some chokeedarspolice- men in uniformfollowed by an army of bearers and chaprasseys, escorted us through the native throng that im- peded the approaches, into a grand column-girt rotunda, brilliant with a fir- mament of perfumed lamps, and deco- rated with complimentary festoons of American and the Companys flags in- tertwined. Here we found, alreadygath- ered, a mixed concourse of European and Asiatic guests in their holiday attire, presenting in the variety of their cos- tume and language such a picturesque and curious assemblage as can only be met with on some ceremonious occasion in Calcutta. A numerous company were ranged in a circle on sofas, benches, and chairs, leaving the central space free for the movements of their entertainers and at- tendants. As many more were passing from place to place, interchanging pleas- antries with their friends, following officious kitmudgars to an upper floor, where were refreshments, chess and bil- liards, or chatting apart with fat but dig- nified banians. There were graceful and scholarly babds, of the Young Ben- gal persuasion and the style of Rajin- dur Dutt; grave, enlightened and sagacious Parsees, competent, by their 200 Two fncidents of Travel. [Aug., liberal views, if not by laos, to fill the plaeewben he shall have departed from his sphere of munificent usefulnessof Sir Jamesetjee Jeejeebhoy, whom all In- dia delights to honor for many wise and princely endowments; Anlo-Indian officers of the Napier school and prac- tice, bluff and devilish blunt old Joe Bagstocks with grizzled moustaches and complexions like a guinea livery old boys who can never get their curry hot enough; puppy heroes of tbe ensign age, with incipient whiskers, cut mut- ton-chopwise, and dickeys desperate with starchsuch fellows as you see periodically bawed, or I-believe-you- my-boyed,or, 1-say-Ewed-deuced-foine guirl-ed in the portfolio of Mr. Punch. There, too, were chee-chee civil-servants on very chee-chee salariescheap, ser- vile, and especially nigger with whited sepulebres for daughters, if whited sepulchres can be touched with a Terpsichorean madness of the legs, and concentre all their aspirations in gym- nastic and perspiratory rehearsals of polkas and valses ~-deux-temps. And there, too, were British civil officers on very Anglo-Indian salariescostly, supercilious, and especially bosses- corting Companys widows, general- officersorphan--daughtersinreduced- circumstances, and other equivocal speculations in crinoline who had con- ceived a longing for three hundred ru- pees dead or alive. Our comfortable host, the fat and fine old Bab~t, modestly attired in pifta, as if to denote that the pleasure his rupees might afford his friends sufficed for him, passed from guest to guest, his hands laden with the rarest and most fra- grant flowers, which ever and anon he sprinkled, as is the superfluous custom at such entertainments, with rose-water contained in a vase of gold with which a servant attended him, while another bore, on a silver dish, minature bottles of attar of roses, pretty fans, fantastic ivory toys, and even a ruby or two, which were for presents to distinguished stran- gers and dearest friends. For every one, as he passed, this fine old Indian gentleman had the true De Coverly addressprettinesses and presents for the ladiesgood-fellow-familiarities or deferential compliments for the men. On a decorated balcony the Gover- nor-Generals bandgraciously contri- buted for the occasiondiscoursed the latest music from ballet or opera; while on the floor native musicians plagued unoffending fiddles, pinched and twitch- ed obstinate guitars, mauled helpless tom-toms, and drew squeals of anguish from miserable pipes, tortured in all their stops with the question peoze et dure. It was a pity that all played at once, and scarcely fairer to the audience than the performers. Presently there was a stir on that side of the rotunda over against the en- trance and the main body of guests; and with Trip to the Wedding from the Government band, and something to correspond, no doubt, from the out- raged tom-toms and the excruciated pipes, the bridegroom in his litter was borne into the midst of us on the honor- ed shoulders of his bearers. At first, this litter was so shrouded with heavy satin curtains, in blue and crimson, purple and orange, embroider- ed with gold, and bordered with massive bullion fringe, that our curiosity, pre- pared for a rnjahs splendors, was not indulged with even the dimmest hint of its quality or the appearance and state of its occupant. But when the bearers set their burden down, and the Bab~, with proud and partial hands, drew back the hangings, we saw a sort of bedstead, wide and high, and all of silvernra- besquely traced and gilded at the cor- nices, and inlaid in the posts. A cushion of cloth served the purpose of a mattress, and a skirt or valence of the same mate- rial, fringed with gold cord, hung nearly to the floor. There were no pillows or coverletfor this magnificent structure partook of the character of a royal divan rather than of a couch. Within, a beautiful, graceful and in- telligent-looking lad, of twelve perhaps, sat enthroned on a princely pile of Cashmere and Canton shawls, true silks of Samarcand, the wondrous textures of the old consecrated looms of Benares, fine linen of Ireland, and even velvets from Lyons. He was cladcorsleted and grenved and helmedin jewels of a rajahs patrimony; golden bells hung silent, so motionless he sat, from his anklesgolden bells from a bright band of gold that encircled his brow; he was slippered with gems too; a Cashmere scarf served him for a cumberbund, and his loonghee cheapened Tyrean purple- or that fabulous texture of Dhacca which the cows ate unawares, as it lay on the grass where a royal rnjputs daughters had spread it to bleach. 1857.] Two Incidents of Travel. 201 The BabAwhen the proud interval devoted to the first wonder and admira- tion of his guests had passedtook the dazzling boy tenderly in his arms, and kissing him fondly on both cheeks, with a happy smile led him forward into the midst of the company. Then the boy laughed and all the golden bells jingled, and the band of the Burra Lard Sahib as the Hindoos style the Governor- Generalstruck up hymeneal strains; and even the twitched guitar lifted up its now willing voice, and the squealing pipe forgot its pain and made merry for this tender child was the newly- married spouse. From guest to guest he passed, grace- fully salaaming, and to the fair ones of the company he offered, with impurtial gallantry, heliotropes, which ever turn, longing, to the sun, and white rose-buds for their significance, and mango-bbs- moms, meaning fruitfulness. Then, hav- ing sprinkled the brows of the fairest with rose-water, and into the lap of a pretty maiden in her fresh teens dropped a pure opal, he sweetly kissed his finger- tips in salaam again, and withdrew to his throne, where he sank down among his shawls like a brown Cupid among flowers. Then the Babft seated himself in a plain arm-chair in the very centre of all, and clapped his hands thri~e, for a signal that the minor shows of the even- ing might begin. First of all came the nautch girls, ar- rayed in barbaric drapery and jeweled in profusionbells on their ankles, and rings on their toes, and bright ribbons of silver brnided in their hair, confined by golden bodkins. Transparent veils, dyed like the mist when the red sun goes down behind it, enfolded them from top to toe, and pearl and sapphire- studded vests of amber satin flashed through and through. From their deli- cate ears, pierced in twenty places, were suspended, softly tinkling, as many rings; and a great hoop of gold, sup- porting a central pearl and two rubies, hung from the nose and encircled the lips, so that the jewels lay upon the chin. When they began to dance it was easy to forget the obdurate guitar, the abused tom-toms, and the heart-wrung pipe in their poetry of motion, the pan- tomime of tender balladrythe devo- tion, the anguish, the patience, the courage, the victory of love, related in curved lines of grace and beauty, in the brown roundness and suppleness and harmonious bendings of soft, elastic limbs, serpent-like in lyric spirals. It was not dancing, speaking Ellslerwise or Taglionic~they neither leaped nor skipped, neither balanced nor pirouetted, there were no tours de force or pit- astounding gymnastics they glided, they floated, in the melody of action; and when one sweet young singer lifted up a fresh but well-trained voice in the artless plaintiveness of Taza Butaza, our hearts were filled with the Indian ditty that Sir Walter Scott so loved. This done, the jugglers came on common-place fellows enough, with few and simple apparatus, and none of the awful and dazzling paraphernalia of our Cockney Herr Alexanders and Yankee Fakirs of Ava. Squatting humbly on the ground they waited for the word. The Babd, smiling, called one to his feet, and bade him show us a sample of his art. The man asked for bottles, empty glass bottles, whole or broken, as the Babi~ pleased. A kitmudgar was sent to the refreshment-rooms above, where champagne corks had been hop- ping smartly by platoons, to fetch a few dead men. When one was handed to the fellow, he sounded it once or twice against another, and stepping forward, with many salaams, to the audience, passed it from hand to hand to be examined, that it might be perceived the bottle was a good bottle, and no deception. Then returning to his place, he broke the bottle in two, and with a fragment in each hand, coolly bit off large slices~ as one would devour a melon or a cake, and with no noticeable care, or any pe. culiarity in his manner of masticating,. but with seeming satisfaction, as though. he were enjoying a repast, deliberately chewed them finely, spitting forth froi~i time to time large mouthfuls of glitter- ing glass.powder, sometimes slightly stained with blood, till the whele was done. Then, at a sign from the BabO, the man approached the spectators, to dis- play his mouth to such anxious scientific inquirers as might desire to examine it. Plainly there had been no trickthe fellow had in very truth masticated the glass, and his lips had suffered a few scratches. If, in the course of the per- formance, he hid spit out a formidable slice of tongue, we admiring new-comers 202 Two Incidents of Travel. [Aug., would, no doubtlike the sailor who attended an exhibition of the Wizard of the North, when he treated his audience to a trick not on the programme, by blowing off the roof of the househave had no more alarmed exclamation to utter than Wonder what hell do next ! After this glassivorous monster, came some experts of the more familiar sort the sword-swallowers, and the fire- eaters, and the tossers of balls, and the posture-makers. We soon tired of them. Then followed a more startling ex- hibition. Some Nutt gipsies were led outa family of four, being a man, two women, and a boy. They brought with them a tall pole which the man fixed upright, in a place in the floor prepared to receive it. They had also two or three brass dishes, some eggs, an earthen jar or two, and a bottle. When the man had planted his pole, he began trotting round it, in a narrow circle, chanting a monotdnous song, which every moment quickened with his pace. One of the women sat on the ground and beat with her fingers on a small drum; the boy drew a clattering ac- companiment from a sort of castanets; the other woman remained for a time silent and still. But presently the man clapped his hands with a smart double stroke, and at the sign the woman rose to her feet and, as he passed her, sprang with marvelous agility to his shoulder, and then to the very top of his headwhere she stood with folded arms, statue-like, and seemingly as firmly planted. Still the man ran on, faster and faster. Then the boy laid dowa his castanets, and took up one of the earthen jars, with which he followed them; and ere we could see how the nimble feat was done, the jar was on the mans head, and the woman stood upon it in the same attitude as before. And still the man ran round and round, faster and faster, and faster went his single-noted song, and faster went the drum. Then the boy brought a brass dish and a bottle, and the man slipped the dish under the womans feet, so that it covered ~the jar like a lid; and he stood the bottle upright on the dish, and the woman poised herself on one foot on the bottle, and with outspread arms, and her free foot in air, was perched like Mercury, on a heaven- kissing hill. And still the man ran faster and faster, and the drum and the castanets hurried to keep up with him; and not until we had grown dizzy, and all the rotunda revolved in our eyes with those revolving gymnasts, did the woman leap nimbly to the floor and with a smile set us free. Then the elder woman left her tom- tom, the younger taking her place; and she stood in the centre of the cleared space with a small basket of eggs in her hand. Around her head she bound, smoothly and securely, a broad fillet, from which twelve silken cords, equi- distant, having each a small noose at the end, were suspended, and hung just a little lower than her shoulders. At once the music beganslowly at first, then faster and faster, as before; and she gyrated with it, measuring her velocity by its time. Like a whirling dervish, at last she spun a human teetotumtill the silken cords with their nooses stood centrifugally, straight out from her head; and when her velocity was at its wildest, one by one she hung twelve eggs in the loops, and whirled on, till the cords ~were like the spokes of a light Yankee wagon in a state of 2.40, and the eggs made a white halo round h~r head. Then, by slow degrees she checked her speed, and at the end replaced her astonished fo~tus-puultry in the basket, undamaged by so much as a dint. After this the Nutts withdrew amid hearty applause, and with generous bucksheesh from the Babd. They were to be followed by the famous mango-trick wherein a mango is made to grow from the seed and bear fruit, for the delectation and special wonder of the gazers. But we had seen that many times before, and had been bored past patience by everybodys, desperate theories to explain it; indeed, we pre- ferred to believe, with the old Indiamen, that it is a veritable miracle. So we withdrew to the refreshment saloon, and having comforted our sympathetic fa- tigne with champagne and fruits, took our leavehappy that in India, on such occasions, we could do that without ceremony. As we passed through the extensive compound, still brilliant and noisy, we saw people enacting legitimate drama that Dr. Bellows would hardly have 1857.] Two Incidents of Travel. 203 approved, with puppets wonderful make-pretenses of their makers. There were celebrated wrestlers, too; and a great outcry anaounced that, in a contest just concluded, one fellow had pitched another over his head and broken his ribs. In India, a wrestler is never called beaten for being merely thrown; he must be turned on his back and slapped upon the belly. For this, her- culean strength is requiredthe strug- gle is at its fiercest then. We were promised, if we would tarry, a sight of the performance of a sheep-eater one of those horrible fellows from the mountains, a reclaimed Thug perhapswho would strangle a large sheep with his hands, and having skinned it with his teeth, would then and there devour it without knife or fork, entire, raw, reeking and warm. But we feared this might prove too much for our suppers; so, betaking us to our buggies, we sped homeward through the still illuminated streetsone of us, at least, having visions by the way of Haroun-al-Rasehid, Signorina Soto, the Wizard of the North, Le Monstre Paul, the Polish Brothers, Thugs, Feejee Can- nibals, Charlotte Cushman, and Borro- boola-gha. II. THE ADJUTANTS GRAVE. IT was at the taking of Rangoon. The crashing batteries of a dozen steam frigates had leveled the stockades on the river side. Black masses of naked, smoke-stained Burmese, exposed at their guns, or in shallow trenches, when the teak walls fell or were burned, were mowed down like grass by a hail-storm of grape. Our artillery was landing. The 18th Royal Irish were already in the breaches and at the water-gate. The Burmese dropped their cumbrous shields, and lances and dhars, and fled yelling, back toward the great Pagoda. Those wild Irish, possessed of the same devil that dashed and slashed and stabbed and hacked and hurrahed in the Euniskilleners at Waterloo, went off in hot chase. Only one regiment! for they would not wait for the slow boats which were bringing the guns, and the 80th, and the sepoy rifles, but broke away in pursuit, in spite of the almost frantic officers, who, weak and hoarse with ineffectual efforts to check their mad command, were forced to follow at last. all chasing the bubble reputation together. One regiment, at the heels of ten thousand panic-stricken savages! One of the glorious fellows of the crack 18th in this tempestuous hurly- burly, was Pallon, the adjutant. He was the equipped model of a gentleman and a soldier according to the standard of his proud regimenta jovial boon- companion, generous comrade, fast friend, frank and fearless enemyin sport a child, in taste a scholar, impetu- ous in fight, pitiful in victory. As his disordered party charged shouting up the broad Dagon Road, between the long lines of the Inner Stockade, over bamboo bridges thrown across trenches, and past grim gigantic idols and poonghee houses fantastically carved, the Adjutant, who had lingered behind the rest, striving to the last, in his habitual devotion to discipline, to restrain the men, happened to be in the rear of all. How now ? jestingly cried Clark, an English ensign of the Adjutants mess, who was running just before him, . our plucky Fallon at the back of us all! This is bad enough for me, old fel- low, who have my medals to win; but it will never do for you, with those red ribbons to answer for. I am doing my best, Clark, my boy, Pallon replied, and shall be up with that crazy sergeant presently. You know I am good for a short brush of footrace ; as running is one of my accomplishmentsthanks to my bog- trotting education, and the practice Lord Gough gave us. Hardly had the words done ringing in his comrades ears, when the gallant Fallon, the pride of his corps, received in his generous breast a dozen musket- balls as he sprang up the broad stair- case of the Dagon Pagodafirst of there all, and quite alone. He fell on his face, stone dead, on the stairs, sword in hand, and smiling. When all was over, and his regiment held the post of honor on the very throne of the Boodh, they gave him a soldiers most distinguished obsequ~es, burying him in a solemn grave of talipot trees, behind a poonghee house of the gre- tesquest architecture, and just outside of what were afterward the sepoy lines of the 80th. His faithful orderly planted a rude cross at his graves head, and set an English white rose there. An American missionary gave it him. In Calcutta, Norab Fallonbeautiful 204 Two Inciaents of Travel. [Aug., accomplished, witty, altogether radiant with rare charms of mind and person waited with her young child for news from the soldier-husband who had her heart in his keeping within the stockades of Rangoon. When they told her he was dead, she fell, uttering only a sharp cry, and lay as one dead for many days. But when she awoke to the conscious- ness of her profound bereavement and her eternal widowhood, she shed not one tear no.r spoke a word, but took her boy and went aboard a troop-ship that sailed on the morrow for Rangoon. On the voyage, still she spoke not, nor ever weptthe silence of her sorrow had something sacred, almost awful, about it, that commanded a deilcacy of consideration, which was a sort of wor- ship, from the rudest around her. Arrived at Rangoon, no sooner had the ship dropped anchor off the Kings Wharf, than Norah sent her chaprassey, a Hindoo errand-goer, with a note to Gen. Godwin, commanding the Com- panys forces in Burmah: The wife of Maurice Fallon, adjutant in the 18th of her Majestys Royal Irish, would be permitted to see her husbands grave; she awaited the expression of the Ge~ernls wishes on board the Maha- nuddy. She waited long. At last the answer came: It was with unfeigned sorrow that Lieut.-Gen. Godwin found himself constrained, by the exigencies of his po- sition, to refuse the widow of one of his best officers, whose loss was felt by the whole Anglo-Indian army, the sad privilege of visiting the spot where his comrades had consigned him to a brave soldiers grave. But the Generals foot- ing in Rangoon was precarious; hour- ly apprehensions of attack, by a strong body of the enemy, were entertained. It was known that a daring Burman chief was approaching with a numerous and well-armed force, and had already arrived in the neighborhood of Kem- mendine. Therefoie, for the present, the Lieut.-General must forbid the landing of his country-women from tho shipping, on any pretext. He hoped to be forgiven by the dear lady, whose grief he humbly asked to be permitted to participate in; but, in this case, he was not left in the exercise of the least dis- cretionsuch were the Regulations. When Norah Fallon had read these lines, she retired to her cabin in silence, and was not seen again that day. On the next, she was observed in frequent and eager conference, in whispered Hindostanee, with an old and faithful bearer, gray-bearded and of grave and dignified demeanor, who had long been in the confidence of her husbandin- deed, a sort of humble but fatherly guardian to the young, inexperienced, and perhaps imprudent pair, who, with their darling between them, were all-in- all to each other, and heedless of all be- side. The old Hindoo had formerly lived several years at Prome, whither he had gone in the capacity of bearer to an English commissioner; he knew the Burmese character well, and could speak the language with tolerable fluency. There were many friendly Bur- mese at Rangoon at this time, deserters from Dallab, shrewd fellows who had foreseen safety in British ascendancy, and being mostly fishermen, had offered themselves for Inglee muskets for the nonce, with a sharp eye to profitable nets thereafter. Indeed, not a few of these calculating traitors had taken to their old trade already, and were busily plying their poles and hooks from crazy canoes at the mouth of Kemmendine Creek. It was not long before some of them, hailed by old Buxsoo, the bearer, came alongside with, as he said, fish for the Mem Sahib, his mistress. On these occasions he conversed with them in Burmese, and whoever watched narrowly the astonished and anxious faces of the fishermen must have ob- served that neither the freshness nor the price of their finny prizes formed any part of the discussion. It was a dark nightno moon and a cloudy sky; all hands had gone below and turned in some hours since. The officer of the deck, night glass in hand, paced the bridge, or leaned over the rail and watched the lights ashore; while the quartermaster pa- trolled at the gangways. But these were not alone on deck; on the bull- ring of the after-gun the pale and tearless widow sat, still as a shadow, and peered through the darkness shore- ward, to where the l8ths lights gleamed from the Great Dagon. Such was her nightly wont, and officers and men had become so accustomed to it, that she sometimes sat there till after midnight, unheeded and forgotten. The young officer still chased with his eyes the restless lights, and dreamed 1857.] Noses. ~05 dreams the while of home and of a sweetheart; the gruff old quartermaster paced up and down, and thought of prize-money and the old woman. Neither had eye or thought for the poor ladythey were so used to her lonesome ways, dye seeelse they might have found something unusual in the anxiety with which she watched a singular object in the water astern only an empty canoe drifting towards the ship! Not drifting either; for now that I point them out to you, you can see two black heads, with long hair twisted in a barbaric knot behind, peer- ing warily above the water in front of the boat, which seems to follow them. The love-loin youngster, or the gruff old quartermaster on prize-money in- tent, did look toward the bull-ring a little later, and sawnothing; the lady was gone. Whither? to her cabin? No; she could not have passed them unobserved. But that was easy to de- cideher light still burned; her state- room was open, and vacant. Where then was she? Good Heavens !it could not beand yet it mustpoor lady !poor baby! They gave the alarm; they roused the ship; a gun was fired; a search madein vain; alas ! it must be so she has gone to join her husband. True! but not that way, gruff old quartermaster; not that way, senti- mental masters mate. Stop thinking about herhave ears and brains for your duty. What was that shot on shore? And, hark now! another, and another, and another! the alarm is given in the British lines; the sentries have dis- charged their pieces and run in! See! the place is all a-blaze with kights; every poonghee-house is illuminated; you can discern the groat porch of the Golden Dagon, with its griffin warders, from here. They are beating to arms; the trumpet sounds the assembly. What could that first and solitary shot have been? Ah! my nautical friends, while your sapient pates were busy guessing, that pair of barbaric black heads have drifted under the stern again, and the same canoe has drifted with themnor empty this time; for, look again, and you will see that her light is no l6nger burning, and her state-room door is closed; and can it be ?yes, you do hear her breathing. Wait! spare your heads the guessing; it will all be cleared up for you one day. Wait till you dare to ask Norak Fallon why she makes so much of that withered white rose. Gen. Godwins next dispatch to the Governor-General contained a curious passage: On the night of the 15th, the cantonments were thrown into dis- order by a false alarm, caused by the mysterious discharge of a pistol in the talipot grove, which incloses the grave of the late Adjutant Fallon, who fell gloriously in the attack on the Dagon Pagoda; the spot is close to the sepoy lines of H. M. 80th. My men main- tained good order, answering the As- sembly call with remarkable celerity, and in complete equipment. At day- break, a sepoy of Major Ainslies picket found a dead boa of great size, and evidently just killed, lying across young Fallons grave; also, suspended to the cross by a blue ribbon, a gold locket containing two locks of haira ladys and a childs; and fastened to the cross, by a short Burmese poignard through the paper, the inclosure marked Inclosure X contained the following: There are no Regulations for the heart of an Irish soldiers wife. N. ~ NOSES. MT E were sitting the other evening by TT the fire, toasting our toes on the fender, preparatory to taking our ac- customed nocturnal journey to Bed- fordshire, when we chanced by accident to notice the shadow of our nose on the wall. The veriest trifle will sometimes modify, or altogether change, the current of our thoughts The shadow of our nose on the wall, somehow or other, entirely engaged and absorbed our meditations. Incontinently we found ourselves engaged in deep cogitations concerning noses in general; and much did we marvel how one of the organs of our

Noses 205-208

1857.] Noses. ~05 dreams the while of home and of a sweetheart; the gruff old quartermaster paced up and down, and thought of prize-money and the old woman. Neither had eye or thought for the poor ladythey were so used to her lonesome ways, dye seeelse they might have found something unusual in the anxiety with which she watched a singular object in the water astern only an empty canoe drifting towards the ship! Not drifting either; for now that I point them out to you, you can see two black heads, with long hair twisted in a barbaric knot behind, peer- ing warily above the water in front of the boat, which seems to follow them. The love-loin youngster, or the gruff old quartermaster on prize-money in- tent, did look toward the bull-ring a little later, and sawnothing; the lady was gone. Whither? to her cabin? No; she could not have passed them unobserved. But that was easy to de- cideher light still burned; her state- room was open, and vacant. Where then was she? Good Heavens !it could not beand yet it mustpoor lady !poor baby! They gave the alarm; they roused the ship; a gun was fired; a search madein vain; alas ! it must be so she has gone to join her husband. True! but not that way, gruff old quartermaster; not that way, senti- mental masters mate. Stop thinking about herhave ears and brains for your duty. What was that shot on shore? And, hark now! another, and another, and another! the alarm is given in the British lines; the sentries have dis- charged their pieces and run in! See! the place is all a-blaze with kights; every poonghee-house is illuminated; you can discern the groat porch of the Golden Dagon, with its griffin warders, from here. They are beating to arms; the trumpet sounds the assembly. What could that first and solitary shot have been? Ah! my nautical friends, while your sapient pates were busy guessing, that pair of barbaric black heads have drifted under the stern again, and the same canoe has drifted with themnor empty this time; for, look again, and you will see that her light is no l6nger burning, and her state-room door is closed; and can it be ?yes, you do hear her breathing. Wait! spare your heads the guessing; it will all be cleared up for you one day. Wait till you dare to ask Norak Fallon why she makes so much of that withered white rose. Gen. Godwins next dispatch to the Governor-General contained a curious passage: On the night of the 15th, the cantonments were thrown into dis- order by a false alarm, caused by the mysterious discharge of a pistol in the talipot grove, which incloses the grave of the late Adjutant Fallon, who fell gloriously in the attack on the Dagon Pagoda; the spot is close to the sepoy lines of H. M. 80th. My men main- tained good order, answering the As- sembly call with remarkable celerity, and in complete equipment. At day- break, a sepoy of Major Ainslies picket found a dead boa of great size, and evidently just killed, lying across young Fallons grave; also, suspended to the cross by a blue ribbon, a gold locket containing two locks of haira ladys and a childs; and fastened to the cross, by a short Burmese poignard through the paper, the inclosure marked Inclosure X contained the following: There are no Regulations for the heart of an Irish soldiers wife. N. ~ NOSES. MT E were sitting the other evening by TT the fire, toasting our toes on the fender, preparatory to taking our ac- customed nocturnal journey to Bed- fordshire, when we chanced by accident to notice the shadow of our nose on the wall. The veriest trifle will sometimes modify, or altogether change, the current of our thoughts The shadow of our nose on the wall, somehow or other, entirely engaged and absorbed our meditations. Incontinently we found ourselves engaged in deep cogitations concerning noses in general; and much did we marvel how one of the organs of our 206 Noses. [Aug., senses, which apparently was the lead- ing feature of the face, should be so seldom mentioned, and occupy so little of the attention of those who, either in works of fact or fiction, have to de- scribe the human face divine. Prose writers and poets have been prodigal and minute in their descriptions of every feature and lineament of the countenance. Much has been said and sung about the hairhyacinthine locks and ebon tresses, and clustering ringlets of light-brown and dark-brown, and yellow and golden locks, are all familiar to us as household words. Oceans of ink, and acres of paper, have been used in describing eyes. Our eyes have been wasted and worn away in reading descriptions of eyes. We have been bored to death with descriptions of black eyes and blue eyes, hazel eyes and gray eyes. The ears, and the cheeks, and the eyebrows, have been the theme of countless pensthe chin has had considerable attention paid to it, especially if it had a dimple; and we have heard lips described times out of number but, strunge to say, scarcely a single writer, in prose or verse, has said anything in commenda- tion of the nose. Nay, they have frequently omitted to take any notice of it whatever; and, if they did deign to mention it, the thing was done with a cold common- place civility, as if the nose was a thing of no consequencea mere cipher, of no value whatever. We see no good reason why the nose should be treated in this scurvy manner; it is as good, and useful, and ornamental, as either the eyes, or the mouth, or the ears. Have the eyes any right t.o look down upon the nose as a thing quite beneath their notice? or are the lips of nobler descent, that they should curl themselves up with an air of supercilious contempt at their neighbor in the floor above? We think not. Neither do we think that amorous young men are justified in constantly passing by their mistresses noses with silent contempt. They will write melting sonnets to their ladies eyes, and, peradventure, to their eyebrows; they will address glowing verses to their cheeks, and melting stanzas to their lips; but we never heard of any man, under the influence of the tender pas- sion, addressing a sonnet to his mfs- tresss nose. How is this? Is a ladys nose a thing to be sneezed at, and treated with contempt in this manner? Surely the age of chivalry is gone! We should like, also, to know, if that numerous body of men, who plume themselves not a little on their art in describing the human countenance, are to be countenanced in their endeavors to discountenance the nose. On all oc- casions they give the nose the go-by. They seem animated with a secret grudge at the nose, and not only wish to put it down, but to keep it down. By the way in which they have treated and talked of it, they have led simple folks to think that there was something dis- reputable about the nosethat it had lost caste and characterand that, in short, the less that was said about it the better. We are resolved to see justice done to the nose. We will no longer stand by, and see it by turns browbeat, neg- lected, and sneezed at. The age of chivalry has not altogether passed away; the weak, and the distressed, and the neglected, will find a champion. We shall buckle on our armor, and do battle in behalf of this much-injured and neg- lected organ. The reader may, perhaps, feel in- clined to laugh in his sleeve at our zeal regarding the nose, and may think that it is hardly worth while making such a prodigious pother about such an insigni- ficant member. The nose an insignifi- cant member! There never was a greater mistake. You may probably think it a matter of little consequence whether a man has a large nose, or a lit- tie nose, or, peradventure, even any nose at all. We think quite the reverse, we think even a noseless statue a most piti- ful and ludicrous sight, and we certain- ly do not know on earth a more contempt- ible object than a man without a nose. He cannot follow his nosehe cannot turn up his nosehe cannot even be led by the nose. The only advantage which the man minus the nose has over his fellow-men who are blessed with noses, is, that it is morally impossible to insult him by taking him by the nose. He has un- doubtedly a clear advantage over them in that respect. It must be confessed that, even with that advantage, noseless men have never been in much request; the yhave always been at a discount. We never heard of a man without a nose making a great n6ise in the world, even in the matter of snoring. 1857.] Noses. 207 But to put aside the extreme case of men without noses, we ask was there ever an instance known of a man with a small, pitiful, paltry nose, distinguish- ing himself in arts, literature, or arms? We suppose not. Were Homer, Shake- speare, or Milton, or Raphael, or Cor- reggio, Napoleon, or Washington, men with little noses? Had the Iron Duke, the hero of a hundred fights, a little nose? If he had, we are certain he never would have gained the battle of Waterloo, or become prime minis- ter of England. There is, in truth, more in a nose than many people seem to imagine. Extremes, however, are not good. It is possible for a man to have too little, as well as too much, even of a good thing. This holds especially in the mat- ter of noses. A man may have a small, diminutive, tom~tit of a nosein short, a mere apology for a nose; or he may have a remarkably large, powerful, aris- tocratical-looking nose, which seems to rule lord of the ascendant over all the rest of the features. As temper- ance is better than either drunkenness or total abstinence, so a medium-sized nose is better than either a very small or a very large nasal organ. If, however, we were by some overpowering neces- sity obliged to have eitb,er an exceed- ingly small or an exceeding large nose on our face, we would prefer to have one of large dimensions. A man with a large nose, if he does not always rise in the world, very seldom sinks into the lowest current of society; his nose keeps him always floating above. He is generally at least decent, and frequent- ly highly respectable in his character and conduct. None of these things can be predicated of a man with a small nose; it is mor- ally impossible that he can rise in the worldhis nose keeps him down. No- body likes to have anything to do with a man whose nose is contemptibly small there is something suspicious about such a man. The man, in fact, feels this himself; he cannot look you in the face like one who has a full compliment of nose. He is continually reminded of his paucity of nose. He cannot shave himself, he cannot wash himself, he can- not tie on his neckcloth, he cannot see the profile of his face on the wall, with- out being painfully reminded that his nose is less than the least of all iioses. A feeling of insignificance steals over him; lie feels that he is a mere cipher in societythat he is, in fact, more in- significant than a tailor. He loses hope, becomes regardless of character and ap- pearance, drinks to drown the recollec- tion of his nose, and probably ends his days in obscurity, as a ballad-singer or knife-grinder. Noses differ from each other, not only in size but also in shape. Roman noses and aquiline noses are generally esteem- ed the handsomest; they belong to the large order of noses. There is some- thing dominant and aristocratic in the form and expression of these noses, which renders them very imposing. Such noses frequently belong to per- sons of superior intellect and high moral sentiment, and are oftentimes found indicative of great strength of mind, and decision of character. Gre- cian noses are very beautiful and be- coming in women, but we cannot say that we admire them in the male face they give it a soft and silly appearance. We never knew a man with a Grecian nose who was not a confirmed nincom- poop. Cock-noses and snub-noses belong te the small order of noses. This descrip- tion of noses is much more numerous than any other; perhaps, two-thirds of the population have their faces adorned with noses of this fashion. The family of the cock-noses, if not very respecta- ble, are certainly very numerous. You cannot walk in the street, orgo to church, or attend a public meeting, without see- ing hundreds of men and women with such noses. The cock-nosed men are a busy, bustling race, remarkable for their self-conceit and cool assurance. They are always nestling themselves into snug, little, great places; ever and anon they are becoming candidates for the office of town-councilor, or commis- sioner of police, or magistrate, or some other place of honor, by which they will gain greetings in the market-place, and become entitled to the uppermost seats at feasts. Cock-nosed men are generally remarkably loquacious, and love well to hear the melody of their most sweet voices. Hence, at din- ners, they are constantly starting up and proposing toasts; and, at public meet- ings, some cock-nosed man is sure to get upon his legs, and raise ami uproar by proposing an amendment or adjourn ment. The sense of the meeting may be clearly opposed to him, and on all 208 The Grisette. [Aug., sides his ears may be saluted with cries of Down, down, Off, off, Spoke, spoke, and other popular marks of dis- approbation; but the cock-nosed man is not to be put downhe is determined either to carry his amendment or spoil the meeting. The men with snub-noses are rather an amiable class of individuals. There is a rich store of homor and drollery about their noses, which causes them to be much sought after as boon cornpnn- ions. They are often cunning shavers men of infinite jest and most excel- lent fancy. Abstractly considered, a snub-nose is not prepossessing. Look- ing at the nose itself, we would not form a high opinion of the mental or moral qualities of a man with such a nose; yet it is an undeniable fact, that many men who have been born into the world with snub~noses have frequently risen to great eminence in divers professions, and in the race of life have oftentimes left behind them men with far better noses. Nay, we know instances in which men with most ridiculous-looking, little, snub-noses, have contrived to step over the heads of men with large, imposing, aristocratic-looking Roman noses. There is no accounting for these thingsthey are beyond the reac to explain. h of our philosophy The last class of noses to which we shall advert are hook-noses. They be- long to the large order of nasal organs, and are rather of rare occurrence. The paucity of such noses, however, is not much to be regretted. The men who have the misfortune to have hook-noses on their faces are frequently no better than they should be ; they are, in gen- eral, sly, insinuating rogues, who, by cunning and much craftiness, contrive to circumvent and cajole the simple ones of th& earth. No good can ever be expected to come of a man having a hook-nose Let no such man be trust- ed. If we were a tender-hearted maid- en, we would on no account fall in love with, far less wed, a man having a hook- nose. Such a man would, in all proba- bility, commence beating his wife, even before the expiration of the honey-moon. We cannot explain why there should be so much wickedness in hook-nosed men; but such is the case. We would not like to journey through Coventry with a man having a hooked nose. We shall add no more. THE GRISETTE. ~jI~1 ACH quarter of the gay and fasci- 4 nating city of Paris has its distinct- ive and peculiar social characteristics. The Quartier St. Denis has been appropriated by the busiest and the dirtiest of the trading population; the Chaussde dAntin, with its gay pavd and good houses, by bankers and mer- chants; and St. Germain, with its large hotels and aristocratic air, by the an- cient nobility, so admirably described in the novels of Balzac; but that which is the most peculiar, which has no rival, in fact, in any other city in the world, is the Quartier Latin, the natural. retreat of students and grisettes. Grisettes! how many are the asso- ciations which this word calls up !how many mingled recollections does it excite, from the time of Laurence Sterne to that of Eugene Sue! and yet, when the question is asked, how diffi- cult it really is to define satisfactorily the true character of that creature of life and animation, a Parisian grisette! The French academy cannot do it; for the dictionary description of a woman of mediocre condition is an avoidance, not a solution of the difficultyfor the grisette stands alone, defying defini- tion. If you walk in the gardens of thc Luxembourg, however, or stroll down the Rue Vivienne, or the Rue Richehien, you recognize at once one of the class so essentially peculiar; and you say, Ah! there is a grisette. You know her at once, perhaps by her pretty dress of bright-colored cotton, by her tasteful and coquettish cap, with its gay knots of pink ribbon, and by her neat, well-fitting boot; or if you fail in her costume, you know her by her bright eye, her rosy cheek, her ready smile, and her elastic step. If one could take cognizance of her thoughts, they would be of Paul de

The Grisette 208-213

208 The Grisette. [Aug., sides his ears may be saluted with cries of Down, down, Off, off, Spoke, spoke, and other popular marks of dis- approbation; but the cock-nosed man is not to be put downhe is determined either to carry his amendment or spoil the meeting. The men with snub-noses are rather an amiable class of individuals. There is a rich store of homor and drollery about their noses, which causes them to be much sought after as boon cornpnn- ions. They are often cunning shavers men of infinite jest and most excel- lent fancy. Abstractly considered, a snub-nose is not prepossessing. Look- ing at the nose itself, we would not form a high opinion of the mental or moral qualities of a man with such a nose; yet it is an undeniable fact, that many men who have been born into the world with snub~noses have frequently risen to great eminence in divers professions, and in the race of life have oftentimes left behind them men with far better noses. Nay, we know instances in which men with most ridiculous-looking, little, snub-noses, have contrived to step over the heads of men with large, imposing, aristocratic-looking Roman noses. There is no accounting for these thingsthey are beyond the reac to explain. h of our philosophy The last class of noses to which we shall advert are hook-noses. They be- long to the large order of nasal organs, and are rather of rare occurrence. The paucity of such noses, however, is not much to be regretted. The men who have the misfortune to have hook-noses on their faces are frequently no better than they should be ; they are, in gen- eral, sly, insinuating rogues, who, by cunning and much craftiness, contrive to circumvent and cajole the simple ones of th& earth. No good can ever be expected to come of a man having a hook-nose Let no such man be trust- ed. If we were a tender-hearted maid- en, we would on no account fall in love with, far less wed, a man having a hook- nose. Such a man would, in all proba- bility, commence beating his wife, even before the expiration of the honey-moon. We cannot explain why there should be so much wickedness in hook-nosed men; but such is the case. We would not like to journey through Coventry with a man having a hooked nose. We shall add no more. THE GRISETTE. ~jI~1 ACH quarter of the gay and fasci- 4 nating city of Paris has its distinct- ive and peculiar social characteristics. The Quartier St. Denis has been appropriated by the busiest and the dirtiest of the trading population; the Chaussde dAntin, with its gay pavd and good houses, by bankers and mer- chants; and St. Germain, with its large hotels and aristocratic air, by the an- cient nobility, so admirably described in the novels of Balzac; but that which is the most peculiar, which has no rival, in fact, in any other city in the world, is the Quartier Latin, the natural. retreat of students and grisettes. Grisettes! how many are the asso- ciations which this word calls up !how many mingled recollections does it excite, from the time of Laurence Sterne to that of Eugene Sue! and yet, when the question is asked, how diffi- cult it really is to define satisfactorily the true character of that creature of life and animation, a Parisian grisette! The French academy cannot do it; for the dictionary description of a woman of mediocre condition is an avoidance, not a solution of the difficultyfor the grisette stands alone, defying defini- tion. If you walk in the gardens of thc Luxembourg, however, or stroll down the Rue Vivienne, or the Rue Richehien, you recognize at once one of the class so essentially peculiar; and you say, Ah! there is a grisette. You know her at once, perhaps by her pretty dress of bright-colored cotton, by her tasteful and coquettish cap, with its gay knots of pink ribbon, and by her neat, well-fitting boot; or if you fail in her costume, you know her by her bright eye, her rosy cheek, her ready smile, and her elastic step. If one could take cognizance of her thoughts, they would be of Paul de 1857.] The Grisette. 2Oi~ Kooks last novel, of the coming ball, of the Sundays fdte, or of the hand- some student, who has twice during the morning strolled past the window of her employers, and whom she once danced with at St. Cloud; yet that little gri- sette has been working very hard, and for perhaps two nights since h~s not closed her eyes; but what is that ? she has earned thirty sous a day, she has means to enjoy the next fdte, to buy a new cap, perhaps to minister to the wants of the suffering student, whom she thinks, poor fool, most surely loves her. And tis well that she has a bright fancy, a lively spirit, and a trusting heart; for her interest in the worlds goods are otherwise slender enough. Escaped from childhood and appren- ticeship, the grisette takes a little gar- ret, just large enough to contain a bed and table; she has no chair, for the bed renders that a superfluity, and the purse of the young milliner who earns but thirty sous per day, admits of none. There is, however, a little mirror, a portrait of the Duke of Orleans, and a water jug filled with violets, which she must take out before washing, but the water is the more welcome for its per- fume; and outside her window is a box full of stocks, the favorite flower of grisettes. Unfortunately, however, this botanic- al taste of the grisette is much against her. There are many morose and self- ish people who cannot understand the love of flowers, or indeed of any other unstimulating and simple pleasures; and the elderly citizen, whose room is immediately beneath that of the grisette, has this order of mind. He is apt to lean forth early and late with bald head and dressing-gown, to enjoy the air that agitates the cowls of the neighboring chimney-pots; and the care the grisette bestows upon her botanical nurslings, by watering them twice a day, the effect of which sometimes extends itself to the head and collar of her neighbor, is not calculated to increase any feelings of amity between the surly citizen and the lively grisette. The grisette seems the only creature in the world over whom change and cir- cumstance have no control. She never sighs, but laughs and sings; and if she has not one sous in the world, with which to purchase her roll and coffee, she only laughs the merrier. The gri- sette is the most laughter-loving being VOL. x.14 that can be found in this existence of care and calculation; but she never calculates, she leaves all that to dull people and diplomatists. Tell her she may fall ill; she laughs, and asks if there is not the Hotel Dieu ? Tell her she may be unable to work, and may starve for want of means; she laughs, and asks, who ever died of wnnt in Paris ?for she has not read Los Mystdres, and never believes in evil. Tell her old age may come, when lovers, health, and spirits will all for- sake her; she laughs again, and tells you that thousands of grisettes have lived before her, and she is content to do as they did. But, it is not only in avoiding all care for the future, and in taking no heed, not only for to-morrow, but even for the evening of the same day, that the extraordinary conquest of a perpe- tual sunshine of feeling over the ills of life develops itself in the grisette, but it is precisely the same with the contra- rieties of the present. It, until four oclock in the day, the grisette has not tasted a morsel of food, and seeks the six sons necessary to purchase a cutlet, when she knows she can find no credit, and if, after all her search, only a two sous piece appears, she laughs, shakes her head, and trips gaily forth, hoping to discover a friend who will lend her a dinner; and should she find that the fi euriste at the corner is as badly off as herself, they laugh together at the ab- surdity of the thing. If, in the coldest night in winter, she breaks the pane of her little window, and has no means of replacing it, she laughs; and as the wind whistles round the room, sings to it a joyful refrain. Still, the grisette is not exempt from the pains and penalties of life. Paris is not a paradise to her; and though many moments are eminent- ly happy, many hours there are, which, to another, wo uld.be heavy and grievous. The grisette toils at her vocation every day but Sunday, and even then generally until mid-day; for she is a victim to bthers; and as a Jieu- riste, an embroiderer, a milliner, a sempstress, as the case may be, has little time that she can claim. Some classes of grisettes work at home, others are attached to the shops they serve. If the grisette works in her little garret, nothing can be more soli- tary and monotonous than the day she 210 The Grisette. [Aug., passes; in the work-shop it is other- wise; and although the mistress of the establishment, once, herself, a grisette, but now of an age respectable, im- poses silence by her presence, this con- straint removed, masqued balls, and ap- proaching fdtes, afford abundant con- versations to the grisette there em- ployed on the bonnets and dresses of the great ladies, to whom a grisette is a creature worthy only of every descrip- tion of contempt. Still, the solitary day passed in her own apartment, among the chimney-pots of the Quartier Latin, does not make the grisette sad or unhappy. She exercises her fingers it is true, perhaps laborious- ly, always with an agility, neatness, and taste, worthy the highest admiration; but her thoughts are free, and employ themselves actively on all the subjects most interesting to her. The grisette affects nothingneither religion, nor morality, nor learning, nor sensibility; but she sings over the airs of Mu- sards quadrilles, laughs again at the recollection of Paul de Kocks novel, that she remained awake all night to read, and of the handsome student, who twice offered her the shelter of his um- brella, when overtaken by a shower of rain upon the Boulevards. Like the great dames who despise her, the grisette has her tastes, but they are simple and inexpensive, and bear no resemblance to either S6vres china or cashmere shawls. The grisette loves flowers, neat boots, roasted chestnuts, galettes, negus, and refreshments gen- erally. In galettes and chestnuts she is a connoisseur; and the good man who presides in his stall at the Porte St. Denis, would no more think of offering an ill-made galette to a grisette, than would a chestnut-roaster of the Rue du Bac expect to impose upon her an infe- rior fruit, instead of the true and cele- brated produce of Lyon, which foggy town is as famous for its chestnuts as its silks; art engaging itself to charm duchesses, and kind nature providing for the grisettes. Like all French women, the grisette affects pockets, both in her apron and in her dress ; and strange enough is, sometimes, their store. Should she, in seeking for aught, find the nec~ssity of taking out their contents, it is remarka- ble if one does not find chestnuts more or less roasted, half a galette, a few French plums, a thimble, a needle-case, and the claw of a small lobster; for the pocket of a grisette is at once her work- bag, and her general dependence against hunger; and when is a grisette not hungry? Poor creature, her hard work, her fine climate, her contented spirit, her general animation, her anticipations of tlg.~ bright and pleasurable, all give her an appetite; but it is seldom that the gratifications produced by the good fare of a Parisian cuisine fall in her way; a cutlet at the most, or more commonly a cream-cheese and tough galette, are her most choice daintiesunless indeed, at the ifte des Loges at St. Germain s, where, in gipsy style, fowls are aliko roasted and eaten in the open air, and the great diversion of the day seems to be in the labor of the cooksthen in- deed the grisette and the student, if they have three francs between them, set aside one for the ball, and spend those that remain in good cheer, a bot- tle of thin wine, a fricandean, and a gt~- teau; and nothing that can be produced by V6ry, with all his pines and iced champagne, can be found half so deli- cious; for with the feasters of St. Ger- mains is the pure spirit of enjoyment the spirit excited by rare indulgence, and not sated and worn by perpetual stimulants. The Parisian lion (dandy) is ready to offer all his fortune for the invention of new pleasures; the grisette wonders at the immensity that exists, and she asks in her simplicity for noth- ing better than their perpetual repetition. To the world of Paris generally, Sunday is a day that in the city is marked by dullness, at least after mid- day: for instead of shops lined with lithographs, millinery, the literature of the day, or articles of vertf, nothing is to be seen but lines of green shutters, occasionally diversified by paintings of the calling pursued within; or, here and there, but very rarely, with an apposite remark on the sacred character of the day; but to the grisette, this Sunday is a fete-day, a day of joy, a day worth living fora day whose enjoyments are to be toiled for by days of labor, and nights of watchfulnessa festival de- voted to dancing, mirth, and pleasure. The fountains play at Versailles, or there is a fair at St. Cloud, or there are concerts at St. Germains, and the gri- sette has earned three francsenough to pay her fare by the railroad, and to buy a galette when there; and though she knows full well that on Monday 4 1857.] The Grisette. 211 morning she will not have a sous to pay for the milk that forms her early meal, she cares not then; nor does the coming day bring with it reflection. There is nothing in the whole world that the gri- sette loves so well as dancing; and she dances with a lightness and grace pe- culiarly her own. This taste is not re- markable, if we consider her character, and that for six days the poor grisette has been cribbed into her garret or her workshopher every energy bent to- wards procuring this eminent delight. In summer, grisettes may be seen by dozens, strolling along the gardens of the Luxembourg, charmingly dressed in the most simple, yet coquettish costume; each leaning on the arm of a student, and all pressing forward to the Thurs- days ball, held on the bright green sward. Again, the carnival is the ely- sium of the grisette; she believes that the world holds nothing half so capti- vating, and she plays her part to the full. But though the Sunday fete and the annual carnival are delightful, the grisette sometimes indulges herself by giving a ball in her own apartment among the tiles; and although half her friends remain on the stairs, and the rest stand all nightalthough she sleeps her- self the remaining hours on the floor, and knows that the next morning the proprietor will expel her from his house although the whole party are dying with thirstand though they have no music but the singing of the merry shoe- maker from the next streetyet the ball of the grisette, in her attic, is as much enjoyed as the best ball at the Tuileries or Versailles. The grisette is neither literary nor learned; she can read, perhaps, with tol- erable ease a novel of Paul de Kocks, and she can write a little in good text hand; but orthography puzzles her sadly, and she uniformly mends her pen with her scissors. Fortunately, however, as the grisette has sometimes an extensive cor- respondence, there are public letter wri- ters in Paris, as in the Eastmen full of zeal, worthy of confidence, and in their charges reasonable enough for the pocket of a grisette, unless, indeed, when they write in. verse an epistle, which costs at least sixpence. The grisette is peculiar in her reading tastes. Victor Hugo and Lamartine she thinks little of; neither is Alexan- der Dumas, or even Balzac, of much weight in the eyes of the grisette. Paul de Kock, an author whom no Pari- sian lady would read, is considered by her as the greatest romance writer of modern days, for she loves the merry and the amusing, and will forgive much under such a garb; she feels no sympa- thy for a strain of highly subtilized mo- rality, she says it is unnatural, and passes it over accordingly. Neither cares she for politics, and knows little of the dif- ference between the sultan, the pacha, Louis Philippe, or the Due de Bour- deaux. It has been said, that a grisette loves a dance beyond all other earthly things; and that if fetes champ~tres pass away with summer, and if there are no longer Bals de Paris, and Buls de Willis at St. Cloud, St. Germains or Versailles, there are in winter a hundred orchestras devoted to this salutary and healthful enjoyment of the grisettes withia the walls. The balls of each season are equally joyous, yet each has its peculiar aspectan aspect indefinable like the grisette herself, but they would require too much space to describe, and I must leave them to the imagination of the reader, merely remarking, that they are all under the surveillance of the police, and that nothing can be more lively, more graceful, than the young dancers, nor, generally speaking, anything more correct than the arrangement itself. With us, it is often the dress, the socie- ty, the dissipation, the refreshments of a ball-room, that please; but to the gri- sette it is simply the exercise, the dance itselfher costume remains the same; there is still the pretty cotton dress freshly ironed, the little apron with its useful pockets, the smart cap trimmed with rose-colored ribbons, made up by herself, but setting the fashion to the milliners of the Rue Vivienne; the lit- tle black boots well fitting and tightly laced. As she is elsewhere, so is she at the ball; and for refreshment, it is sel- dom that she enjoys more than a glass of weak Bourdeaux at threepence the bottle. After the ball, there is nothing half so delightful to the grisette as the Spectacle ; and the result, of course, is that the numerous theatres of Paris, those of the Boulevards particularly, realize larger receipts on Sundays or fete-days, when the shops of the mo- distes are closed. The Porte St. Martin or the Ambigu costs but little, less than sixpence purchases an entrance, and the 212 The Griselte, [Aug., grisette will labor hard but she will earn this pleasure. The love of a Specta- cle is innate, I believe, in n grisette for whether at the booths in a country fete, or in admiration of the tnlents of Dejazet herself, the grisette is an ama- teur of the histrionic art; and in her own little garret, with an old tartan shawl draped over her gingham dress, dreams that even she is an actress. Were it not for this general taste for Spectacles, it would be difficult to aecount for the manner in which all the minor theatres of the French capital are nightly filled to overflowing; but when one looks round the house, and notes the students in the pit, and the grisetteswith their smiling faces and pretty capsin the balcon nnd second gallery, the matter is solved nt once, and one recognizes the universal taste which, in France, cherishes and supports the drama. In summer the grisette is a fervent admirer of the beauties of nature, in the shape of the Bois de Boulogne, and the little park of Monceaux, and she likes them the better if combined with don- key-riding and strawberries and cream. This mixture of tastes is also observable at the theater, for a grisetto is never to be seen at the modern Bobineau, or ancient theatre of the Luxembourg without oranges, or, if it is not their season, apples. As in all other matters, however, the loss of a good, held for the time to be such, never affects the gri- sette; summer with its fetes champ~tres, its donkey excursions to Montmorency, its strawberry eatings, and its sunshiny days, may be pastshe does not sigli that it is so, but hails November with added joy, because all the yellow bills pasted over the walls of Paris, an- nounce the commencement of the grand masqued balls. And then we must grieve for the grisette. Habit and education have broken down the barrier which sep- arates mirth and levity, high spirits, and utter abandonment to the intoxications of pleasure; and when the grisette abdi- cates her costume and her sex, we fol- low her no further. In the Tuileries gardens, the grisette is sometimes to be seen, but rarely; she may have a little dog attached by a string, or may be found among a group of laughing children with hoops and skipping-ropes by the sunny bank that the Parisians call the little Pro- vence ; and it is pleasant so to see herfor she seems in her right place, where all is bright and happy. It is difficult to say at what age the grisette ceases to be considered such, or butter- fly-like changes into a dull nnd uninter- esting thing. Some French writers give thirty as her prime; but generally speaking, I should think at twenty-six she became serious, and at two and thirty ceased to be a grisette. At this age she is transformed, changed; the laughing, careless, dancing girl begins to calculate, grows fat, is orderly, eco- nomical, has perhaps a husband, per- haps children, and inculcates lessons of virtue and morality as if they had been the sole guides of her own life. Sometimes an ancient grisette takes a shop and commences trade as a wine- seller or grocer, married or unmarried; but if married, she is generally a good wife and a good mothershe is stern to her servants, and to her dressmaker and milliner gives herself the airs of a princesssuch are the strange changes that knowledge of the world, age, and circumstances, create in the Parisian grisette. Paris, however, is by no means the only city in France that pro- duces grisettes; for Metz, Strasburg, Bourdeaux, and Toulouse, are all equal- ly celebrated for the grace and beauty of grisettes, whether dark or fair; but Paris offers a combination of the char- acteristics of all the grisettes of France, whether of the north, south, or mid- land, and, therefore, more correctly gives a specimen of the class. Curious and interesting as the char- acter of the grisette is, it is scarcely remarkable that such a class exists in France, when the country and its social condition is considered. The fathers and mothers of families are compelled to find some provision for their children, and among the various vocations of men, little remains for the girls of medi- ocre condition but to become dress- makers and milliners ; the necessities of life constrain them to work indefati- gably, while the climate and habits of society in France induce to careless- ness and enjoyment. Without family restraint, without moral or religious education, while the opinion of the world around is in her favor, it is scarcely remarkable, that the light- hearted lively Parisian grisette recoin- penses herself for days and nights of toil, by reckless levity, too often, it must be allowed, carried beyond the 213 1857.] The Last Poet. bounds of order, or morality. We grieve that it is so; but yet it must be acknowledged, that she has often dis- positions fitted for better thingswith a tend.erness of nature, and truthfulness of thought, that do honor to her sex. The faults of the grisette are the faults of her training, and the social character of her country. Her levi- ties do not harden her heart, or vitiate her character; they do not make her deceitful, interested, or full of hatred to those who may he bet- ter. The great lady in her handsome bonne% may sneer at the prettygiri in her gay cap, and perhaps even feel a little jealous of her gentility and grace; but the grisette never recriminates, even in thought. All her friends love herall her acquaintances laugh and sing with herall, like her, go to car- nival balls, attended by their lovers; and in all this the grisette knows no harm, for it is the habit of her class, and is as much part of her natural existence as is her daily labor in her vocation. If her friend or lover needs it, the grisette dines on a galette to provide them comforts. If both forsake her, she sheds no tears, she heaves no sigh, she indulges in no gloomy condemna- tions of an ungrateful world; she continues to trust and to confide, to work, to sing, to laugh, and to be happy. THE LAST POET. FROM THE GERMAN OF ANASTASIUS GELIN. ~~THEN will ye, oh ye poets, H From song at last refrain? When will ye cease from singing The old eternal strain? Is not unto the very lees The cup drained long ago? ave not the roses all been culled, The fountain ceased to flow? As long as the suns chariot Through azure holds its way; As long as human countenance Looks up to him by day; As long as lightuings flash oer earth, And thunders loudly roll; As long as fore the wrath of heaven Trembles a human soul; As long as, after tempests, In heaven is set Gods bow; As long as human bosoms With peace and pardon glow; As long as night, in Anther, Sows stars with bounteous hand; As long as man the golden words Can rend and understand; As long as when the moonbeams shine, One heart is filled with love; As long as wanderers weary brow Is cooled by rustling grove;

The Last Poet. From the German of Anastasius Grun 213-214

213 1857.] The Last Poet. bounds of order, or morality. We grieve that it is so; but yet it must be acknowledged, that she has often dis- positions fitted for better thingswith a tend.erness of nature, and truthfulness of thought, that do honor to her sex. The faults of the grisette are the faults of her training, and the social character of her country. Her levi- ties do not harden her heart, or vitiate her character; they do not make her deceitful, interested, or full of hatred to those who may he bet- ter. The great lady in her handsome bonne% may sneer at the prettygiri in her gay cap, and perhaps even feel a little jealous of her gentility and grace; but the grisette never recriminates, even in thought. All her friends love herall her acquaintances laugh and sing with herall, like her, go to car- nival balls, attended by their lovers; and in all this the grisette knows no harm, for it is the habit of her class, and is as much part of her natural existence as is her daily labor in her vocation. If her friend or lover needs it, the grisette dines on a galette to provide them comforts. If both forsake her, she sheds no tears, she heaves no sigh, she indulges in no gloomy condemna- tions of an ungrateful world; she continues to trust and to confide, to work, to sing, to laugh, and to be happy. THE LAST POET. FROM THE GERMAN OF ANASTASIUS GELIN. ~~THEN will ye, oh ye poets, H From song at last refrain? When will ye cease from singing The old eternal strain? Is not unto the very lees The cup drained long ago? ave not the roses all been culled, The fountain ceased to flow? As long as the suns chariot Through azure holds its way; As long as human countenance Looks up to him by day; As long as lightuings flash oer earth, And thunders loudly roll; As long as fore the wrath of heaven Trembles a human soul; As long as, after tempests, In heaven is set Gods bow; As long as human bosoms With peace and pardon glow; As long as night, in Anther, Sows stars with bounteous hand; As long as man the golden words Can rend and understand; As long as when the moonbeams shine, One heart is filled with love; As long as wanderers weary brow Is cooled by rustling grove; 214 An Englishman upon Scotland. [Aug., As long as leaves in spring-tide, Roses in autumn blow; As long as there are laughing cheeks, Or eyes with gladness glow; As long as over new-made graves The cypress wails the dead; As long as hearts are broken, Or human tears are shed; So long her sway upon the earth, Shall hold the queen of song; And those whom she inspireth, Around her throne shall throng; And singing and rejoicing, The last of poets then, Away from earths old mansion, Shall pass the last of men. And still inclosed within his hand, God holds this world of ours, And looks and smiles upon it, As man on unculled flowers. And when this mighty flower is dead When all earth shall pass away, And the red fire-ball of the sun Like fallen leaves decay Then askif to thy question The air reply again Whether at last is ended The old eternal strain? AN ENGLISHMAN UPON SCOTLAND.~ [Dr. Johnson always abused Scotland. The English Sam loved Sawney about as warmly as the American Sam loves Patrick; and the following recent let- ter of an Englishman traveling in Scot- land, to an Englishman at home, would have warmed the very cockles of the doctors heart.] JJ AlL Caledonia! Land of tunnels and hotel charges! Land of short petticoats and Pactolian hair! Land of red noses! The delicate flavor of thy whusky still lingers on my palate, and inspires my pen to celebrate thy praises. It was in the afternoon of a close, muggy, premature spring day that I placed myself in a railway carriage at one of the midland towns of England, and that same evening found myself in the full enjoyment of the bracing cli- mate of Auld Reekie. The westerly winds, which are there usually accom- panied by fertilizing showers, had changed that morning for a fine breeze from the eastward, which brought with it beautiful flakes of snow and delicious hailstones as large and as hard as sugar- plums, but free from the whitelead and saccharine matter that occur ia those popular edibles. These two winds reign alternately throughout the year in the Scottish metropolis, with only rare exceptions, when they allow a hearing to the blus- tering railing of rude Boreas. This invariableness has the great advantage that the inhabitants are thus always

An Englishman upon Scotland 214-218

214 An Englishman upon Scotland. [Aug., As long as leaves in spring-tide, Roses in autumn blow; As long as there are laughing cheeks, Or eyes with gladness glow; As long as over new-made graves The cypress wails the dead; As long as hearts are broken, Or human tears are shed; So long her sway upon the earth, Shall hold the queen of song; And those whom she inspireth, Around her throne shall throng; And singing and rejoicing, The last of poets then, Away from earths old mansion, Shall pass the last of men. And still inclosed within his hand, God holds this world of ours, And looks and smiles upon it, As man on unculled flowers. And when this mighty flower is dead When all earth shall pass away, And the red fire-ball of the sun Like fallen leaves decay Then askif to thy question The air reply again Whether at last is ended The old eternal strain? AN ENGLISHMAN UPON SCOTLAND.~ [Dr. Johnson always abused Scotland. The English Sam loved Sawney about as warmly as the American Sam loves Patrick; and the following recent let- ter of an Englishman traveling in Scot- land, to an Englishman at home, would have warmed the very cockles of the doctors heart.] JJ AlL Caledonia! Land of tunnels and hotel charges! Land of short petticoats and Pactolian hair! Land of red noses! The delicate flavor of thy whusky still lingers on my palate, and inspires my pen to celebrate thy praises. It was in the afternoon of a close, muggy, premature spring day that I placed myself in a railway carriage at one of the midland towns of England, and that same evening found myself in the full enjoyment of the bracing cli- mate of Auld Reekie. The westerly winds, which are there usually accom- panied by fertilizing showers, had changed that morning for a fine breeze from the eastward, which brought with it beautiful flakes of snow and delicious hailstones as large and as hard as sugar- plums, but free from the whitelead and saccharine matter that occur ia those popular edibles. These two winds reign alternately throughout the year in the Scottish metropolis, with only rare exceptions, when they allow a hearing to the blus- tering railing of rude Boreas. This invariableness has the great advantage that the inhabitants are thus always 1857.] An Englishman upon Scotland. 215 prepared for rain or snow, and the city has been expressly built to allow fair play to the declamations of these hearty sons of iEolus. Another ad- vantage is, that the spring and summer are not forced on with injudicious haste, as in the southern part of the island. The too fortunate dwellers in the north have snow in April, snowdrops in May, primroses in June, green gooseberries in July, kidney potatoes in August, and in September they would have cherries did not the winter set in atout that time. I have not mentioned the blossoming of the hawthorn, because I believe there is only one in the country, ori- ginally introduced from France by Mary Queen of Scots. There are no hedges, as is well knownit being thought useless to give them the trou- ble of coming into leaf for only a few weeksand stone walls without mortar, to allow free passage t~ the wind, have been considerately substituted in their stead. And it is a fine sight to observe the hardy patriotism of the very ther- mometers. At a degree of cold when the effeminate instruments of London would be making themselves snug some- where below zero, their northern breth- ren boldly hold their own, and disdain to descend even to the freezing point. Although the temperature is delight- fully free from the exhausting heat of the tropics, and the sun has no power to scorch and blacken the golden hair, there is evidently a very remarkable degree of warmth in the ground, prob- ably from subterranean fires. At least in no other way can I account for the difficulty experienced by the unaffected classesespecially by the beau sexe, that is, the sex that is fond of beaux in keeping their feet encased in shoes and stockings. I had previously heard from the lips of young mothers that there is no part of the human frame moie exquisitely beautiful than the tootles of an infant. And now that I have had the privilege of gazing un- rebuked on the untrammeled feet of Scotias lovely daughters, I can well appreciate the maternal enthusiasm aforesaid. Imagine, sir, a Jennie Deans hurrying across a treeless moor, her symmetrical feet, ten inches by eight, flapping the soft oozy ground like two beavers tails, and you will understand the treat that awaits my minds eye when I again read the Heart of Mid- lothian. I was also much struck by the taste displayed by the ladies in the harmony of colors, and in the general. arrange- ment of their costume. In no other metropolis, not even in Paris, would you behold a green bonnet, trimmed with black lace, and surmounted by a scarlet feather, while a more or less real cashmere shawl fell in angles over a brown merino gown. It is strange that these fashions have not yet reached London, for the plumed mushroom hats have already been introduced into Edin- burgh. Such, indeed, are the grand- est triumphs of the electric telegraph, which thus makes one minute hand do for all mankind. It would be quite superfluous to offer my humble word of praise to the grace- ful idioms with which the language abounds. Who has ever taken up a Scotch newspaper without being invited to a public roup, at which a self- contained, house with all its plenish- ing, would be offered for sale at the upset price of so much? Or if you drop in upon a friend at dinner-time he will probably ask you to sit down and sup a few broth, and then tell you he has a piece of land to fen. If you hear people talking about . flats, you must not infer that their conversation is upon musical matters, or even about in- experienced young men. Nor need you be alarmed if, on asking a stranger some question he cannot himself answer, he should bid you specr at thot indyveed- jual, pointing to some harmless per- son advancing towards you. And how beautiful are the Scottish ballads when recited or sung by some venerable spinster, with a voice as sweet and as searching as the highest tones of a Highland ba~,pipe. The effect is positively thrilling. At the still, starry hour of supper-time, too, with what suggestive melody does that popular refrain Cnl-ler-o-o-o 1 pierce through the lamp-lighted air. But there was nothing more touching than the enthusiastic perseverance of a pair daft bodyScotch again, sir in introducing a variation into one of Bobby Burnspardon my familiarity, but I saw his farmmost characteristic songs. Thus the crone warbled through her nose. A mons a mon for a that, an a that, an a that, Aiblins a wummans a wumman taeae. 216 An flnglishman upon Scotland. [Aug., As for morality, that is undoubted. So great is the value of a spokei~ word, that if in the presence of a witness you should call your cook your wife, straightway you twain would become one flesh. Or it suffices to address a damsel in writing as my dear wife, and the pains of bigamy stare you in the face if you lead another bride to the hymeneal altar. In the same manner the fair mniden becomes your wedded spouse should she in loving phrase call you her beloved or darling hus- band. As Miss Parkes hath express- ed it, you might almost ring her with a kissthe vulgar ceremonial being very properly a mattcr of secondary consider- ation. But there is nothing more cheerful, nothing more refreshing to the mind, nothing more harmlessly jocund, than the Seventh Day as it is observed north of the Tweed. On that day the grass grows in the very streets with gladness. An irascible but very particular friend of mine was sauntering along Queen street, indulging in a shocking bad habit of half whistling through his closed teeth two barshe never gets beyond that of some popular air. It unfortunately happened that the pious worshipers were at that moment hurrying home from church, in all haste, lest they should drop any part of the incenisters dis- course by the way. A decently-dressed mechanic, or small tradesman, overheard my very particular friend in his folly. Could he believe his own ears? Alas! there could be no doubt that hissing sound was a reminiscence of Bobbing around. But it might be owing to an accidental and momentary forgetfulness of self. So he tapped the shoulder of the irascible man, and sternly inquired, Dye nae ken this is the Sawbeth ? Confound it! yes, of course I do. Its dull enough for two Sundays rolled into one. The rcbuker then rejoined, with solemn harshness: Ye maunna whustle on the Sa~beth. You be ! ex- claimed my very particular friend, with an impetuosity that might have appeared indelicate in a female. For an instant the worthy Sabbatarian stared at the wretched man with an astonishment which presently turned into contemptu- ous pity, as he remarked to the by-stand- ers who were gathering around, Ech, sirs! hes jist a Pawpist. The same simplicity of manners and the same austerity of moral discipline very properly constitute the standard by which is measured any candidates fitness to represent his countrymen in Parlia- ment. There is a very important town in the north of Scotland chiefly known to Englishmen for its manufacture of marmalade. At the recent election, a gentleman had the audacity to solicit the votes of the electors,though conscious that one of the most heinous offenses of which a man can be guilty would very likely be char~ed against him. It is asserted, and very generally believed, that this ungodly individual, moved di- rectly by Satan, or one of his most potent ministers, actually perpetrated certain saltatory movements on the Sabbath-day, while visiting a friend in foreign parts. It is notorious to every cotter in the land that to dance at a sacred festival is an abominable and heathen practice. The poor benighted pagans were guilty of this grievous folly. Andalas for frail humanity even the son of Jesse once so far forgot himself as to assume the character of a master of capers gay, and to dance to his own fiddling. But mark the consequences. His own wife despised him, and his spoiled child hurled him from his throne. Our Scot- tish confiseurs, however, would submit to run no such risks as this in a year when a comet is close at hand to punish such laxity of morals, and a murrain on the cattle is only watching for such an op- portunity to cross the ocean stream and do deadly despite upon our fat beeves and lowing kine. All honor, then, to these enlightened citizens, and may their marmalade ever maintain its po- sition on every breakfast-table in the empire. There is, perhaps, nothing more tru- ly characteristic of the modern Scot whose ancestors desertedWallace and for a long time rejected Bruce (the entoh~o- logical party partial to spiders)than his disinterested patriotism. It is a mat- ter of honest pride to observe how large an amount of public work is undertaken by private individuals working har- moniously together and dovetailed into Boards. There is the General Prison Board, the Board of Trustees for Manu- factures, the Fishery Board, the Bible Board, the Board of Supervision for Relief of the Poor, and I know not how many more Boards besides. And yet, with all these onerous duties to fulfill, the hardy sons of the north can still 1857.] An Englishman upon Scotland. 217 find time to mix sociably with their fel- lows, and to grace the fashionable pro- menades with their manly presence. Their magnanimity, however, will be better appreciated, if, instead of in- dulging in generalities, I set before you the details of any one board taken at random. Let us select that for the Su- pervision of Relief to the Poor. Here we find a President at 1,200 a year, a Secretary at 800, five clerks at salaries varying from 117 to 235 each, a messenger at 40, three sheriffs at 100, and five unpaid members. Now, let us mark the noble return made by these sixteen individuals for this mean and scanty remuneration. I copy from the Edinburgh Daily Express: (1.) Investigated charges against 18 inspectors, dismissed 1, accepted the resignation of 4, censured 7, cautioned 2, and found 4 not guilty. (2.) Passed a minute making inspectors responsible for the proper relief of the poor within their parishes. (3.) Issued a circular, explaining the duties of inspectors in regard to elections of local boards. (4.) Sanctioned change in the mode of as- sessment in 29 parishes, and refused to sanction change in 4. (5.) Increased the number of elected members of board in parish of Elgin. (6.) Ap- proved the erection of poorhouses in 6 parishes, and combinations of parishes. Approved plans and sites for poorhouses in 2 parishes, and alterations or addi- tions in 5. (7.) Prohibited the use of double beds for adult paupers (!) in Aberdeen poorhouse. (8.) Inquired in- to the state of the Kirkaldy poorhouse, and intimated that, until altered, an offer of admission could not be recog- nized as a legal offer of relief. (9.) Sanctioned or refused to sanction rates for boarding paupers in certain parishes. (10.) Arranged for the eighth distribu- tion of the grant of 10,000 in aid of medical relief. (11.) Decided whether it was necessary that certain fatuous paupers (290 in all) should be sent to asylums or not. (12.) Called attention of inspectors to the necessity of attend- ing to certain legal forms in the case of fatuous, paupers. (13.) Decided 549 complaints of inadequate relief; of these 300 were dismissed on the inform- ation contained in the mere schedule of application. All this for a beggarly 4,000 a year. The case of the Fishery Board is even yet more striking. For the small year- ly sum of 500, its members actually take the trouble to dispense 12,000 annually. Yet one more note of admir- ation, and I have done. In the olden times the wisdom of our ancestors wise, according to their lightswas content to regard the agricultural coun- ties as efficiently, or rather sufficiently, represented by the peers whose estates were almost coequal and synonymous with those counties. The proportion of county to burgh members was con- sequently very small, and thus the influ- ence of the great lords was in some measure restricted to their own House~ In these liberal times we have,, of course, changed all that, and in our well-directed attempts to give all parties fair play, have very considerately opened the Lower House, also, to the aristocracy. In a commercial and in- dustrial country, it is clear that the best judges of what is beneficial to trade and manufactures must be that impar- tial class which looks down serenely, from its pride of place, upon the toils and turmoils of the hewers of wood and drawers of water. It would be strange if this truth were not thoroughly un- derstood by the intelligent, sensible, independent electors of Scotland. Ac- cordingly, out of fifty-three constituen- cies, twenty-four did themselves infinite honor by returning representatives who bear titles or social distinctions. A Scotch paper, the Herald, thus classi- fies the chosen delegates of the people: There is one peer, the Earl of Fif& ,. who, by virtue of being purely an IrisW peer, can, like Lord Palmerston, do that which no British or, perhaps, no Scotch peer can, viz., sit as a cemmon-- er. In every other respect Scotch peers are entitled to the privileges of British or United Kingdom peers as regards precedence, freedom from~per-- sonal arrest in civil action~ etc. An Irish as contrasted with a Scotch peer (out of the sixteen representative- peers), has still the extra right,, if so inclined, to sit in the House of Commons~ Thea we have the two eldest sons (Earl of Dalkeith and Marquis of Stafford), and hence heirs-apparent to the great ducal houses of Buceleuch and Suther- land; there aro four prospective earls, viz., Lord Haddo, Lord Melgund, Lord Duncan, and Lord Eleho. In addition, to make up this glittering bead-roll. of twenty-four, we have the younger sons of marquises, earls, viscounts, and 218 Witching Times. [Aug., baronsalso several baronets, and one knight, being our own worthy and highly-respected citizen, Sir James An- derson. To descend, in one sense, in the scale, there are nineteen members returned for Scotland, all more or less of aristocratic lineage, such as Mr. Hope Johnston, Mr. Sterling of Keir, etc., who can point to several descents, identified with the long possession of castles, mansions, and broad acres. This leaves just ten members to be elected from among the commercial and industrial classes, and if you, sir, con- sider that an unfair proportion, you need not expect again to hear from, sir, Your obedient servant, CANDIDE. WITCHING TIMES. A NOVEL IN THIRTY CHAPTERS. CHAPTER XXVI. THE time was when Mark read the Bible to his mother; but now it was she who read it to him. Sitting by the great lonely fireside, from which Ra- chel had been taken, glancing stealth- ily now and then at his face to see if any ray of comfort was there, she read with a little tremble in her voice: It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth. He sitteth alone and keepeth silence because he hath borne it upon him. He putteth his mouth in the dust if so there may be hope. But the Lord will not cast off forever; for though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the mul- titude of his mercies. Let us leave them there; she still holding the great brown book on her unsteady knees; he still leaning for- ward, motionless, his face hidden by his sun-browned hands. If we go to the Salem jail, we shall find Rachel with another Bible, also open, though its pages seem very hazy and distant to her, as if seen through infinite mists of tears. But let us not enter, for Elder Higginson is going in, and he has better business there than the gratifica- lion of curiosity. We may peep into the study of Elder Noyse now, without any danger of encountering open Bibles. He seems to be rather fonder of opening a new stone flask which stands on the mantel-piece; and, indeed, one would take it to be a friend that he has been in the habit of trusting for some time back, so frequently does ho recur to it for counsel and consolation. Yet even that spiritual helper does not seem to bring him perfect steadiness of nerves or calmness of soul. Sometimes he looks suddenly over his shoulder, as if there were some one calling him from behind; sometimes he opens his study door and glares out with dreadful ex- pectation, as if he had heard horrible whisperings in the passage. Is he haunted by spectres, or temptod of fiends, or are these the first symptoms of delirium-tremens? There are mo- ments, too, when he has the air of being ready to make some great confession; and then again he seems to force him- self back into a steady and fierce resolu- tion of guilt. What makes him stare at his razor with such longing and yet coward eyes? Surely the simple idea of shaving himself cannot induce him to scowl and shudder after that fashion. And now Frisk had an affair of the most serious nature with the energetic executors of Salem justice. I think, Square Curwin, said Sheriff Herrick: or ruther, I want to know what you think about that ere dawgBowson 5 dawg. Whether old Bowson was crack- brained, or boosy, or bewitched, or what not, you say you cant say, and I say I cant say. But the dawgI reckon that dawg is a familiar; and I think he oughter be committed and brought to trial. What do you think, Square ? Well, Sheriff, replied Curwin, gravely rubbing his chin, I am prone to believe that the dog, as you say, is a familiar. At any hazard he ought, as a measure of precaution, to be made away with. He has some very demoniac ways with him, eh ? Yells like murder at a hymn, or a moetin-ous bell, observed Herrick. Just so, said Curwin. I myself

Witching Times 218-231

218 Witching Times. [Aug., baronsalso several baronets, and one knight, being our own worthy and highly-respected citizen, Sir James An- derson. To descend, in one sense, in the scale, there are nineteen members returned for Scotland, all more or less of aristocratic lineage, such as Mr. Hope Johnston, Mr. Sterling of Keir, etc., who can point to several descents, identified with the long possession of castles, mansions, and broad acres. This leaves just ten members to be elected from among the commercial and industrial classes, and if you, sir, con- sider that an unfair proportion, you need not expect again to hear from, sir, Your obedient servant, CANDIDE. WITCHING TIMES. A NOVEL IN THIRTY CHAPTERS. CHAPTER XXVI. THE time was when Mark read the Bible to his mother; but now it was she who read it to him. Sitting by the great lonely fireside, from which Ra- chel had been taken, glancing stealth- ily now and then at his face to see if any ray of comfort was there, she read with a little tremble in her voice: It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth. He sitteth alone and keepeth silence because he hath borne it upon him. He putteth his mouth in the dust if so there may be hope. But the Lord will not cast off forever; for though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the mul- titude of his mercies. Let us leave them there; she still holding the great brown book on her unsteady knees; he still leaning for- ward, motionless, his face hidden by his sun-browned hands. If we go to the Salem jail, we shall find Rachel with another Bible, also open, though its pages seem very hazy and distant to her, as if seen through infinite mists of tears. But let us not enter, for Elder Higginson is going in, and he has better business there than the gratifica- lion of curiosity. We may peep into the study of Elder Noyse now, without any danger of encountering open Bibles. He seems to be rather fonder of opening a new stone flask which stands on the mantel-piece; and, indeed, one would take it to be a friend that he has been in the habit of trusting for some time back, so frequently does ho recur to it for counsel and consolation. Yet even that spiritual helper does not seem to bring him perfect steadiness of nerves or calmness of soul. Sometimes he looks suddenly over his shoulder, as if there were some one calling him from behind; sometimes he opens his study door and glares out with dreadful ex- pectation, as if he had heard horrible whisperings in the passage. Is he haunted by spectres, or temptod of fiends, or are these the first symptoms of delirium-tremens? There are mo- ments, too, when he has the air of being ready to make some great confession; and then again he seems to force him- self back into a steady and fierce resolu- tion of guilt. What makes him stare at his razor with such longing and yet coward eyes? Surely the simple idea of shaving himself cannot induce him to scowl and shudder after that fashion. And now Frisk had an affair of the most serious nature with the energetic executors of Salem justice. I think, Square Curwin, said Sheriff Herrick: or ruther, I want to know what you think about that ere dawgBowson 5 dawg. Whether old Bowson was crack- brained, or boosy, or bewitched, or what not, you say you cant say, and I say I cant say. But the dawgI reckon that dawg is a familiar; and I think he oughter be committed and brought to trial. What do you think, Square ? Well, Sheriff, replied Curwin, gravely rubbing his chin, I am prone to believe that the dog, as you say, is a familiar. At any hazard he ought, as a measure of precaution, to be made away with. He has some very demoniac ways with him, eh ? Yells like murder at a hymn, or a moetin-ous bell, observed Herrick. Just so, said Curwin. I myself 1857.] Witching Times. 219 kicked him out of lecture, two Thurs- days agone, for making a scandalous disturbance. But as to a trial, I think the court would hardly receive such a finding; moreover, it would be some- what ludicrous, and would give a hold to the mocking Sadducees. I learned in Andover that the dog which was afflicted hy Master John Bradstreet, was hung up without any formalities. I say, therefore, take this brute wherever you find him, and finish him at once. And the law will purtect me in it, Square 7 inquired Herrick. Unquestionahly, replied the jus- tice. What is a dogs life compared with the safety of everlasting spirits? Does not the Scripture say, Without are dogs? showing thereby that dogs were little esteemed by the apostles. Toward the deacons house went the sheriff, inquiring of every one: Havent seen anything of a white dawg, have ye? A prick-eared dawg with a squirrel-tail old Bowsons dawct Very naturally he found the dawg at home, sitting in the sun on the door- steps, and occasionally scratching at the threshold by way of requesting an entrance. Herrick whistled to him coaxingly, hut Frisk wagged his tail and remained at his post, as much as to say: I am monstrously obliged for your politeness, but I dont like your com- pany. Herrick entered the yard and approached the animal, whistling and patting his knee with a smile of incon- ceivable fascination. Frisk, however, was sulky, nnd backed off as the other advanced, crouching in a deprecatory style, but still keeping at a distance. Come here, sir, come here ! called the sheriff, angrily. Scared and re- fractory, Frisk now took to his heels down the garden. Drat the critter, said Herrick. I shall have to run him down, which wont be so thunderin easy.~~ This was the nearest approach that he ever made to swearing; for, cold- blooded brute as he was, ~is life .was regular, and he even went scrupulously to church, although not a professor. He rushed after Frisk, and found him the incautious quadruped !sitting in the door of the barn. Chasing him in, Herrick closed the only outlet, and muttered: Now Ive got ye. So he had, but not until he had trotted up and down stairs twenty times, scrambled all over the haymows, bumped his head against the rafters, narrowly escaped impalement on a pitch-fork, and saved his brains, by a tight squeeze, from the spiteful heels of old sorrel. He clutched the fugitive by the scruff of his neck, at last, and rammed him, yelping, into an empty corn-bag which lay fortunate- ly convenient. Now then, he solilo- quized, as he cooled off, where shall I hang this critter? It oughter be on Gallus Hill; thats the form; thats jurisprudence. Hes property, too; and I hant no legal warrant to destroy it; might be prosecuted for it, I spose, according to law. Ill hang him on Gallus Hill, any way. That cant be nary great violation of the charter. He took a back way across the gar- dens, and reached his house without being observed by the Bowsons and Stantons. Saddling his brown nag, he mounted and set off for the gibbet; Frisk swinging, with stifled lamenta- tions, over his shoulder, while a troop of boys trotted on after him, wondering what show was now to be exhibited to their indefatigable curiosity. Arrived at the gallows, he tied his horse to one of the uprights, flung a light noose over the fatal crossbeam, and then proceeded to open the sack with every suitable caution. Frisk allowed himself to be dragged out quietly, and made no sort of disturbance till he caught sight of the gallows; but at that spectacle he yelped and struggled furiously, as it the whole measure of his condemnation had been suddenly revealed to him. He had attended every execution in the company of his master; he had watched the convulsions of the victims in their last terrible agony; and he was no such fool of a dog as not to understand that all that kind of thing was extremely un- pleasant. I have no doubt that he so comprehended matters; for now only did he make a frantic and bloodthirsty resistance. In fact, he did what he had never done before in all his good-natured life; he bit like a wolf, and brought a stream of gore from Herricks horny fingers. The sheriff let go his hold with a roar; and, cre he could pick up a stone, Frisk was forty yards off. Then There was racing and chasing on Gallows Hill plain; But the lost Frisk of Salem they bagged not again. Where he went, or how he subsisted during the winter, is a mystery; hut 220 JVitching Times. [Aug., not until the next spring was it that he sneakingly reappeared in his native village. The dreary new year of 1693 fol- lowed now; and two days after it came a court at which fifty unfortunates were tried for witchcraft. Let us hasten, with swift feet and half-averted eyes, over these monotonous tragi-comedies; only observing that the general aspect of things was better at this time than it had been. The Colonial Assembly had appointed a regular Court of Oyer and Terminer, in place of the informal one, called in the first emergency, which had acted with, such savage zeal. Public opinion had receded~ and was still receding from its high tide of aifrighted credulity. People talked low against the convictions which had taken place, and loudly against the prospect of any future ones. On the other hand, Stoughton, Parris, Matber and others of Juggernauts enthusiastic support- ers, stung by the reproaches which began to volley at them, resolute to crush the reaction before it came to a head, did their best in procuring evi- dence, and in electioneering against the Sadducees. Rachel had the misfortune to be tried first, before the influence of these fer- vent gentlemen was quite broken. As she stood up in front of the judges and tried to murmur, Not guilty, the church was filled with a moanful whis- per of pity; but this voice of mercy found no echo in the court, and the sheriffs hushed it down sternly. The poor girl could not defend herself; yet the bench would not allow Mark nor any one else to plead for her. As usual, too, every species of evidence, that could in any way tend to a conviction, was marshaled in one huge battery of accusation. Sarah Carrier was brought into court, and bullied out of some declarations concerning the magical nature of the More family, and the great peril of marrying into it. She was very un- willing to say anything against Rachel; cried bitterly, and complained that El- der Noyse had threatened to hang her. In a very different spirit, and with a glib, flippant impudence, Elizabeth Par- ris swore that the prisoner had often afflicted her, both before and since her arrest. Dear child, it is not so, exclaimed Rachel eagerly; and then she added, with a look of tearful re proof: There is another judgment, dear child. These were the first words that she had spoken aloud; and they startled the audience for a moment into a wonderful stillness. Noyse broke it by muttering to Parris: Another judg- ment? another judgment? Why, bro- ther, she must hope in the judgment of Minos, or Mahomet. She cant surely desire the judgment that we preach of. Oh, replied the elder of Salem village, she looks to her fathers coming; he is prince of darkness, you know. Noyse shook with laughter, like a man whose nerves are perfeefly un- governable, and walked unsteadily to the other side of the house to confer with Newton. During the whole trial he moved about incessantly, whispering to ministers, magistrates, and judges. I cannot see, elder, said Hawthorne to him, why you are so exercised for the condemnation of this child. She is a meek, harmless little thing. He! he I giggled Noyse, throw- ing a stifling breath of rum into the magistrates face. Why, justice, we all exercise for it, do we not? Surely the witnesses exercise. See Santy there in her convulsions. He! he! he! haw! bawl He was certainly imprudent, with his continual strange laughter; but he was so beside himself with excitement or liquor that he did not know it. This exercise will soon stop, I think, said Hawthorne. People have playe4 on one string as long as it will bear. I reckon that we ought all of us to be cautious now, or something will crack about our ears. Santy, as might be expected, came down wfth her evidence by the hourful, and spiced it with plenty of energetic hysterics. It was, however, the com- monest and dreariest kind of such rant as was usually poured out in the witch- craft trials. Rachel had tempted her to drink magic lk~uors; had haunted her, in company with a black man of small stature; had bitten her, and tried to get down her throat in the shape of a red squirrel; had flown away, in her sight, over free-tops and into chamber- windows. During her almost unin- telligible babble, many of the spectators absolutely yawned with weariness; as much as to say that they had heard all 1857.] Witching Times. 221 that kind of thing a great many times before. Her illustrious successor was William Stacey (brother of John Stacey, the tavernkeeper), that same shooting vaga- bond who, seven or eight months pre- vious, had come so near doing the busi- ness of Rachels pet, Harry. What he had to tell was that very circumstance, together with such fantastic additions as his boosy imagination suggested. My dog Teazer, said this sporting gentle- man, he come on a red squirl, nigh Harry Mores cabin, under the pines, which he was like to nab; but it run away towards a tree, whereby I shot at it, and scoured on arter the dog. The squirl took another trail, and made for a bunch of elders, which, coming up to at a full run, I saw nothing but Rachel More, sittin on the ground aneath the elders, lookin mighty skeery like, with blood on her face and buzzum, which same put me in a dreadful skeer, as well as Teazer, who smelled of her and whined; whereby I never said a word, but jest stood and pinted at her, seem as how she was a witch, and could change her- self into a squirl and change hack. She was white and a pantin, but up with a switch and flew at Teazer, who scoured off with his tail down, and I likewise, which I say without shame, having seen naught of the like afore or sence, as I hope to be saved. Such was the long and short of Wil- liam Staceys testimony, which flushed Noyses face with suppressed merri- ment, yet which, so far as corporeal circumstances were concerned, was as accurate an account of the bare circum- stance as one could reasonably demand of a drunkard. For the present it gave very general satisfaction to the judges, excepting Judge Sewall, who ill-natur- edly took occasion to aggrieve the con- scientious witness by various skeptical cross-questions. A couple of old gran- nies, and as many little girls, swore that they were acquaint of this squirrel; that they had often seen him about Mores cabin, and even almost in the cabin; that he answered Rachels call, jumped into her lap, and ran up and down her dress; that, to the best of their horrified belief, he was her familiar or attendant devil. Good-wife Daunton, said the attor- ney to a smooth, dumpy woman, who took her place on the stand, you are the helpmeet of the jailer, I believe. I reckon I be, sir, to be sure, re- plied Good-wife Daunton, smiling in a way that put one in mind of a plate of soft butter. Tell the court, said Newton, what have been the communications of the prisoner, with regard to religion, since her confinement. I never knew as she have been con- fined,replied Good-wife Daunton. She havent been married a month, please the honubble court, sir. I mean to say since her imprison- ment, explained the lawyer. Oh, sence her imprisonment! Oh, sence then her communications have been beootiful to be sure. She have read the Scripter amazingly, and hearn to prayer and sich like, as if she was a dyin angel. Oh, ah, yes, broke in Newton, ap- parently not much gratified by the re- sponse. But you have examined her, I hope. Tell the court what witch- marks you have found upon her. Please the honubble court, I have examined her, testified Good-wife Daun- ton. I have examined her keerfully, and found no witch-mark whatsoever. What a plagues come over the woman, muttered Newton. I thought she always found witch-marks. He dismissed the good-wife with a look of great contempt, and recalled William Stacey. That personage stated that, since the death of More, he had shot habitunlly in the woods around the de- serted cabin, and had devoted his atten- tion particularly to squirls, in the hope of massacring that one which had once so incomprehensibly frustrated him. He had killed above a score and a half of them in that vicinity, and thought that he had finished the career of the bushy- tail in question about the first of Octo- ber. This was sufficient: this explain- ed the absence of witch-marks from Rachel: three months woujd heal a sore spot, though it were made by no matter what unclean spirit. That mis- erable Elder Noyse seemed to be more amused than ever at this portion of the testimony. His excitement had evident- ly quickened his sensibility to the comic; and, perhaps, he appreciated all the risi- ble horror and nauseous grotesque of these tales about demoniac suckings. One really feels like despairing of the devil, at hearing of his playing such ti3icks on wrinkled old hags, of ninety 222 Witching Times. [Aug., and upwards. He disguised himself, indeed, in the form of a toad, hedge- hog, miller, and so forth, as if he were ashamed of his business; but that does not in the least excuse the disgusting procedure, and his warmest admirers must concede that such conduct was unnecessarily vulgar. What a come down, Noys~, perhaps, thought, from his grand old days, as described by Milton! But these things, absurd as they seem to us, had no laughable appearance to those solemn judges, nor to that young wife who stood up, worn with imprison- ment, and grief, and fear, to face the dreadful apparition of death. As if any- thing could be feared from so gentle a creature, she had been brought to court with her hands bound behind her. For a long time she looked with dry eyes on the hard judges, the keen hireling attorney, and the convulsed calumnious witnesses. But when Good-wife Daun- ton turned back her dress, exposing her neck and shoulders to that great assem- bly, the insult seemed to break the rock that sealed her tears, and they rolled down her cheeks for a while, un- checked and unheeded. At last she whispered to her husband: Mark, wont you wipe the tears from my face 1 Mark did so, for that much was per- mitted him. There were other faces in the church at that moment that needed wiping. After a little she whispered again: Ma~k, let me lean on you, for I am so faint that I shall soon fall. He approached, and was about to put his arm around her waist, when Noyse made a quick, angry gesture to Haw- thorne. The magistrate scowled at the implied order, but obeyed it; for he felt that the reign of Juggernaut was not yet quite ended. He put his hand on the young mans shoulder, and said re- solutely, yet not harshly: Stand back. Presently Rachel begged for some wa- ter. Stoughton commanded her to be quiet, but he could not command in everything; and, even as he frowned at her, she fainted. Her spirit, shouted the witness who was then testifying, her spirit has gone to prison to visit her uncle. Mark lifted up his wife, regardless of the jealous glare of Noyse, and fanned her with his hat until she returned to consciousness. Then the trial went on again: but far away, as it seemed to her; a vague, fitful, unmean ing murmur of words: something which concerned her as if it concerned her not. She collected herself when Stoughton charged the jury, and gazed at him with parted lips, in a tremble of eagerness. How learned the chief-justice was in weapon salve and other magnetic cures, and with what lucidity he talked of marvelous magical sympa- thies and the prestigiatory art of de- mons. But he was most admirable when he discussed the scientific proba- bility of the evidence of William Stacey. Truly, I confess, said he, that Staceys deposition concerning the transformation of Rachel More into a squirrel hath a somewhat ludicrous air, as, also, have his expressions con- cerning the dogs smelling at her and whining; but if there is any blunder in it, I think it is because his fancy was tickled with the featness of the pheno- menonnot that he would be so wicked as to tell a lie upon oath, nnd that for nothing. But if half-witted people think he swore false, I suppose it is because they imagine that what he told implies that Rachel More was turned into a squirrelwhich she was not; nor did his report imply any such real metamorphosis of her body; but only that these ludicrous demons exhibited to the sight of Stacey and his dog the shape of a squirrel; one of them turn- ing himself into such a form, and others hurrying on the body of Rachel near the same place and at the same swiftness; but interposing betwixt that squirrel- like spectre and her body, by modifying the air; so that the scene there, to the beholders sight, was as if nothing but air was there, and a show of earth perpe- tually suited to that where the squirrel passed. So I have heard of some painters that have drawn the sky in a huge, lage landscape, so lively that the birds have flown against it, thinking it free air, and thus have fallen down. And if painters and jugglers, by the tricks of legerdemain, can do such strange feats to the deceiving of the sight, it is no wonder that these air- invisible spirits as far surpass them in all such prestigious doings as the air surpasses the earth for subtlety. And as for Rachels being seen to fly in at her chamber window, there is no difficulty in it, if it be understood of her familiar that had transformed himself into her shape. For it is no such unusual thing 1857.1 Witching Times. 223 for witches to appear, either in their astral spirits, or by their familiars, as if it were their very bodily persons. But when she appeared to the squaw, together with the black man, and offered her to drink, it is likely it was her as- tral spirit. These are the most incredi- ble passages in the testimony; and yet you see how credible they are, if rightly understood. The jurymon, however, did not quite agree with the learned and ingenious chief-justice. Either these absurd gen- tlemen had become skeptical with the rest of the community; or they were too stupid to see the force of the prose- cuting arguments; or they were false to their oaths and their duty as citizens. In few previous cases had the criminat- ing evidence being more precise, posi- tive, and consistent with itself than on this occasion; and yet, after a whis- pered consultation of five minutes, the jurors had the face to ignore it all, and bring in such a verdict as had been heard only once before during the en- tire witchcraft prosecutions. rrhe fore- man cleared his throat two or three times, rubbed his puzzled head with his great, honest hand, cast a doubtful glance at Stoughton, as if he wondered what that great official would do to him, gave a long, earnest look at the ac- cused, and then uttered the simple wordsNot guilty! There was a uni- versal shout: some of the women cried hysterically for joy, and many hands were stretched out to Mark and Ra- chel. The flush of fever faded from Noyses face, and he grew so white that it was observed by several persons. Parris looked as if he could sneak to the door between the feet of the spec- tators; while even Mather glowered about him with a startled perplexity, like a sailor waking up to the reality that his ship has gone down during his slumber, and left him but a plank. Stoughton alone was fully equal in air and action to the emergency. He rose, shaking his robes, struck the table with his clenched fist, and shouted, Silence! silence! Sheriff, clear the house of this clamor ! A minute or two brought that order- ly, law-abiding population to a respect- ful stillness. Master foreman, said Stoughton, and you others of the jury, I am amazed, I am confounded, at the verdict which you have brought before the court on this case. By what con- tortions of reason, by what legerdemain of sophistry have you come to such an alienation of the truth? What found you incongruous or wanting in the tes- timony, or lunatic in the plea of the advocate, or what imposture in the charge of the judge, that you should so controvert and contemn them all? I should like to know what evil spirit bath crept into our society of late, to lead it into false argumentations and soft-heartedness toward sin. We were in a way to have cleared the land of these children of Satan. Who it is that obstructs the coarse of justice I know not. The Lord be merciful to the country! Go back now, and con- sider well your verdict; and when you bring it again to us, let it be such as an honest judge can agree to. The jury went out this time, and was absent, engaged in violent discus- sion, for more than an hour. There were still several who clung earnestly to their first decision; but the majority wanted the back-bone necessary for the occasion. They crowded their way back through the unbroken audience, and signified to the frowning chief-jus- tice that they had come to an agree- ment. There was no more shouting when the foreman declared Rachel Stanton guilty of the charges in her in- dictment, but greatly recommendable to mercy. Rachel was almost carried out of court and back to prison. They shut the door upon her, and shut Mark and his mother outside. Very silently did these last go to their desolate hearth; and very sadly did Good-wife Stanton try to resume those readings in Jere- miah; but it was more than her voice could do, and she was unable even to distinguish the words. Meantime, the trials went on rapidly, and two more were convicted before that days sunset. The morrow was the Sabbath; and the church was crowded with people who came from all the vicinity to hear Cotton Mather; for it was given out that he had passed the whole night in preparing a sermon fitted to the occasion; a sermon in which the powers of man would be ex- hausted to revive the dying fanaticism of the village. Be astonished, 0 con- gregation of God ! he began; stand astonished at the horrible spectacle which is before your minds. This vil- lage, and perhaps this land, never ha4 4, 224 Witching Times. [Aug., in it a more astonishing spectacle. Be- hold a young woman, but an old sin- ner, condemned to die before her time for being wicked overmuch. Behold one just nineteen years old, and yet found ripe for the vengeance of a capi- tal execution. Ah, miserable soul! with what a swift progress of sin and folly hast .thou made haste unto the congregation of the dead ! Two or three sturdy people opened their pew doors, and walked out of church, before this sermon was half over; and we will take the liberty to do the same, never minding the denun- ciations of the preacher, nor the club- bed stick of the tithing-man. CHAPTER XXVII. IF ~y persow supposes that our Mark was a fellow who would let his wife be hanged without risking his own neck for hers, they are entirely mistaken. As long, indeed, as the tragedy was in sus- pense, he felt and acted like a baby; and so far from being able to plot a rescue, he could not fashion a train of consecu- five ideas on any subject whatever; but now that the worst was evident and.there remaincd little or no hope that any one else would save Rachel, he determined to save her himself, and grew wonder- fully composed, clear-headed, and reso- lute. His first object was to find a method of getting her out of the country after ho should have got her out of prison. Thc plan of escaping on horseback by land seemed difficult and dangerous; for the winter had fully set in, the snow was two feet deep on the levels, and icy blasts wandered like murderers through the desolate forests. The only other alternative was to smuggle Rachel on shipboard, and fly away with her on the wings of the tempest beyond the ken of Juggernaut. So Mark haunted the rough wharves, examined the points of the five or six sloops and brigs which lay in the harbor, and scraped ac- quaintance with the seafaring men of Salem. According to our admirable Red Letter Hawthorne, they were a jolly, rummy, reckless, piratical set, the mariners of that period. Boil down a sailor of our times until you get him very close upon the consistence of a buccaneer, and you have a sailor of a coatury and a half ago. Mark loafed with these fellows, drank with them, laughed at their scandalous jokes, and pretended to believe their incredible sto- ries. He paid handsomely for liquor when they would suffer it, and, by his indifference to change, won golden opin- ions of John Stacey, keeper of the Ship Tavern. The serious minded of the community, of course, thought that he was going to ruin remarkably fast; especially as he favored the society, not of New England sailors, but of the more ungodly tars from the old country and Virginia. Captain Hilton, said he to abroad, sunburnt, red-whiskered man, who swal- lowed rum-punch with him in the boonest companionship at a table of the Ship Tavern so, captain, the Blunderbuss sails for Virginia in three days, eh ? Ay, ay, my boy, replied the skip- per in a deep, sonorous growl, like the voice of an extra-sized organ-pipe. Captain, what would you say to a couple of passengers who would pay well and thank you into the bargain ? Say? Id say, come right aboard my hearties, responded the skipper, taking his pipe from his mouth, to ship another sea, as he phrased it, of rum- punch. I could bring you such a couple; and they would pay well, I tell you; but it must be a secret business. Will you promise to keep it secret, captain ? Word of a sailor, replied the red- whiskers. Crack on. One of the two is in prison, and has got to get out first, said Mark, his voice staggering a little as he approached his wifes name. One othem witches ? inquired the skipper between his whiffs. Crack on. Yes, captain. continued Mark, en- couraged at seeing how coolly his sea- faring friend faced the idea of running away with a prisoner. It is the one that was tried first, the other day; the young woman of about nineteen. What! that trim wench which spoke for water, and came down by the run? Crack on, my boy. Yes, sir; that w~is my wife, sir. Dont tell on us, for Gods sake ! im- plored Mark, seizing the captains hand. The sailor leaped passionately to his feet, and stared hard at the young fel- lows wet eyes; then, shaking him by the hand vehemently, he broke forth in a low mutter energetic with oaths: Heres faith and troth to ye, my boy. I mustnt help ye break prison, or I might get caught and break owners. t 1857.] Witching Times. 225 But you just run her out; and, if I dont take her in tow, may I be sunk and chawed by horsefish. Mark now detailed his plans and pros- pects: how he had studied the old house in which Rachel was kept; how he was sure of the aid of a certain cunning In- dian named Poquannum; howhe thought it would be easy to get the guard drunk whenever it was desirable; how he could earry Rachel in his arms to the beach so as to leave no tell-tale marks of her little feet in the snow-drifts. All right, my boy, repeated Hil- ton. Keep a sharp lookout; hut crack on, howsoever. If any of them dashed arks of Puritans get across yer track, run em down. Steady for the beach opposite my barky. Im there with a boat and four jolly lads. Give way, men! Then let them dashed old psalm- singing luggers overhaul us if they can. Id bear a hand myself in shivering the prison if it wasnt for owners. But crack on, my boy. There aint much lee-way; for the ice may have us hard and fast before three days is up. So, the countenance of this profane seafaring man heing gained, Mark was at Jiberty to proceed in good heart with his~ machinations against law and order. We may fearlessly leave the whole mat- ter in his hands and in those of Poquan- num, confident that they will omit no conceivably necessary preparation. By the way, what an extraordinary con- venience are these faithful, unforgetting Indians! Who would ever have expected to see Poquannum in Salem again after all his dreadful misadventures with the Puritan whipping-posts? And yet, here he is, just in the nick of time to fly around and make himself useful in the rescue of Rachel. It was rather danger- ous work. for him, I suspect, inasmuch as he only appeared at Good-wife Stan- tons late at night, and before morning sought refuge in some undiscoverable burrow of the wintry forests. It was so dangerous, in fact, that he never would have put his sly fingers into it, had he not felt in his savage conscience that he was bound to the More family by a mighty debt of kindness. A little spoilt by civilized dissipation, he was still at bottom a true Indian gentleman; lounging, improvident, generous, and faithful unto death to gratitude or ven- geance. All things being ready, Mark dropped into the Ship Tavern, about sunset of VOL. x.15 the third day, to exchange a last pre- paratory word with the skipper. Will you be ready for us to-night, captain, between twelve and one Ay, ay, my boy. Sharps the word. Steer for the oak-tree on the beach. Im there with four men, ready for any of your hippereritical Dutch luggers of Puritans, talking through their bow- sprits. This brief dialogue took place in the front entry of the tavern, and was abruptly ended by tbe appearance of that stealthy landlord Stacey. Good- by, my boy; shant see you till next summer, continued Hilton, shaking Mark by the hand and winking both eyes at him with the jolliest piratical humor. I-fe rolled into the bar-room and called for a drink; while Mark, whistling in pretended indifference, walked homeward. A visit with his mother at Mistress Bowsons helped to wear away the evening. On their re- turn, at nine oclock, Good-wife Stanton - went to bed as usual, leaving Mark to watch out the fire. An hour afterward there was a tap at the door, and Poquan- num entered, dressed in his usual red blanket, hunting-shirt, and leggins. After whispering together a moment, the Indian took a jug from the chimney- corner, and went out again alone. A walk of five minutes through the damp, clinging snow brought him to the house of the murdered Corythe ancient edi- fice which I have already mentioned as the prison of Rachel. It was a shabby, unsightly affair, erected originally for one of the wealthy families of the place, and forsaken a dozen years ago for a mansion of more aristocratic pretensions. Quadrangular, with two stories and three gables, it had a small wing on one side, toward which Poquannum now directed his footsteps. Standing on tip-toe, he peered cautiously through the blurred diamond panes of a narrow window, and, by the light of a smouldered fire, saw two beds on the floor, each occupied by two recumbent figures. It was, in fact, the guard-room of the extempore prison a disreputable guard-room, haunted by worse characters than lose confined withina berth of loose fellows, aliens, drunkards, card-players, and pillory notables; for, in the treat struggle - against witchcraft, all other kinds of - wickedness went unwhipt of justice, and: grew impudently rampant. Having sa- tisfied his inquisitiveness concerning 226 Witching Times. [Aug., this pleasant interior, Poquannurn walk- ed to the door, and let himself go against it with a thump which made its rusty bolts clatter. The loud jar, together with a succession of moans and grunts which he proceeded to execute in very good imitation of a drunkard, disturbed the harmony of the snoring quartette within. One of the sleepers rolled over, and muttered in a squeaky voice: Git out ! As the noise still continued, he waked up entirely, and rubbed his eyes open with his left wrist, mumbling: Cuss it! What dum critters that 7 His next move was to kick his bed- fellow, and bawl in his ear: Heist up, Bill. Go to the door and drive off that cussed hog. It was half a minute before Bill Stacey could get his sleepy head up- right enough to look around with any just appreciation of the emergency. All ri6 h t, Capn Fenn, he drawled; and, making a stumbling rush to the door, he flung it open; whereupon Poquannum immediately rolled in, fol- lowed by his jug and a middle-sized snow-drift. Hullo 1 exclaimed Bill; its that dum Injunthe same as was here aforeand as drunk as ever you see. Hullo! hes got nigh upon two quart of rum with him; whereby I means to take a little drectly. I say, Bill, hand over, shouted Fenn, hopping up with the suddenness of a spring Turk out of a surprise-box. Here, let me have a suck at that crc. Now, get along. Aint I capn of this crc guard? Laying violent hands on the jug, he turned it up, and took such a long drink that Bill Stacey thought he should die of thirst in the meanwhile. But the cap- tain was unable to drink the entire two quarts, and so, like a gentleman, as he was, he presently handed the vessel back to his drouthy comrade. Shet that door, Bill, said he. Its dum- nation cold out. And fetch the jug and the Injun here. Stacey pushed out some of the snow, slammed the door to, and reverently deposited that casket of liquid treasure in the chimney-corner. He then seized Poquannum by the ankles and hauled him across the floor to a line with the beds, dropping his feet on the hearth as carelessly as if they were a couple of forelogs. Cussed drunken critter, he observed, surveying him with a moralizing air. Hes happy. Allers chuck full of licker, whereby he loses his soulif hes got anyand makes a hog of hisself. H& accepted the jug again from the hospitable hands of the captain, and proceeded to mortify his own soul by a draught as long as one of Elder Purris s applications. The drinking soon be- came general, for the other two guards- men shuffled off the sleepy coil, and came in for a share of the liquor. Whatll the Injun say when he finds his jug empty? observed an inquir- ing spirit. Oh, hell think he drunk it hisself, answered Stacey; and if he says boo at us, well kick him out. Dum him! dont he owe us suthin for his lodgin ! Meantime, Poquannum lay motionless and silent, with the exception of an ir- regular, laborious, drunken snore. It must have been an extraordinary trial for him to hear all that good rum gur- gling down the throats of those thirsty vagabonds, without being able to ask one little drop for his own appreciative gullet; but he would have seen all the rum in New England poured into the sea before he would have risked, by a wink, the success of the stratagem in which he was engaged by so many sen- timents of Indian conscience and honor. The liquor rapidly mounted to the heads of the estimable men who enjoyed it, and set them to telling such stories and cracking such jokes as would have been sufficient to pillory the entire Old Troop of Salem. Bill Stacey wanted to let off his vivacity in a song, boasting that he had a yoice like a robin-redbreast on a swamp-maple in spring-time. I tell you, Capn Penn, said he, I can snore herr n that dum Deacon Jones what leads er singin in Err Noyses meetnousesnore her n that when Im sleep; of course berr when Im wake. Lets have a song, Capn Penn. Ill sing it. Captain Penn, who had a strong head, if not a strong mind, objected to the song, on the score that somebody might overhear them, and think that they were drunk. Having taken a few more drinks, however, he changed his opinion, and declared that, on sober second thoughts, he would permit a psalm-tune, Old Hundred, for example, to which Bill Stacey might set some jolly words, if he thought proper. Wont do nofn ei- sort, returned Bill. Wont sing jolly words tOle Hunr. Spiles er 227 1857.] Witching Times. words. Spiles Ole Hunr. Fore Ill spile Ole Hunr, Ill make a beast o myself, like at are Injun. And he brought down his fist on Poquannums stomach with an em- phasis, which drew a loud, though in- articulate interjection from that sham sleeper. Here was another cause of dispute; for Captain Fenn, conscious that he was getting drunk on the In- dians rum, felt bound to grant him a certain degree of protection; and he, therefore, stammered forth, if not a tor- rent, at least a vigorous brooklet of in- dignation, upon the inhospitable Stacey. Sides, he observed, in conclusion, what a cuss wanter wake im up for? If a wake im up, why, hell wants rum; and if he wants rum, why, he cant have it. By the time this trifling difficulty was composed, the two other members of the guard were in a state that unfitted them for further watching. Their heads hung helplessly to one side, like the caputs of slain turkeys; and each hay- ing fixed upon a knothole of the floor, stared at it, as if he meant to stare it out of countenance. Presently their spines gave way, and they went flatly to sleep, with such suddenness, that it seemed doubtful whether they had been awake at all. Their somnolency was of the infectious sort tipparently; for Stacey and the captain presently rolled after them deep into the abysses of slum- ber. During half an hour after the guards- men were in full snore, Poquannum lay moveless. Then he turned cautiously on one side, and, through his half-closed eyelids, watched the sleepers for an- other five minutes. At last he rose, by an almost undiscernable motion, noise- lessly stealing up to his full height like~ a ghost or wizard of the theatre. With a tread as stealthy as that of an exhala- tion, he glided by the heads of the drunkards, drawing no quicker pulse from their hearts, causing no tiniest ripple of sound to break upon their hearing. Each form was quiet, and each face expressionless, under the weight of an inebriated slumber. Si- lently, furtively, like a serpent, like a familiar spirit, he paused by the side of Fenn; knelt, and passed an unfelt hand into his pockets, while, with a constant eye, he watched his visage. Presently he rose successful, holding, separated by his fingers, two heavy keys, the handles of which were attached to each other by a thong of deerskin. Float- ing now by imperceptible advances to a door which led into the main edifice, this inaudible being slid the smaller of the keys into the lock,, and turned it with steady delicacy. But the mechan- ism was too coarse for his purpose; the bolt leaped back abruptly with a startling click. In an instant Poquan- num had sunk to the floor, and lay motionless in very nearly his first posi- tion. One of the guards partially awoke; listened drowsily for a mo- ment; muttered some drunken inco- herency; turned on his face, and again slumbered. After ten minutes of wait- ing, of rigidity, of silence, Poquannum stood once more by the portaL Silent- ly a bar left its post; with only some slight grating, a bolt slid back; and the savage disnppeared through an opening of darkness. For a quarter of an hour he was gone; as utterly gone, both from sight and hearing, as if he had descended once and forever into the tomb. Then the door moved again outwardly; moved on soundless hinges with a motion that was almost repose; and, behind its inces- santly but imperceptibly advancing verge, shone the eyes of Poquannum. He slid downward into the guard-room from the unseen stair within, holding the hand of a woman, who, with a faint rustle of female vesture, followed in his footsteps. He seemed to bear her as on wings of silence, across the room; he opened, without one jar of abrupt movement, the outer door; they merged into exterior night, and behind them silently closed the portal. As they passed from under the shadow of the house, and entered the moonlit street, a man rose from a snow-drift, shook off the damp fleeces with which he had covered himself, and welcomed the escaped prisoner back to liberty with an embrace. They whispered each others names, Mark! Rachel ! and that was all that they uttered. He took off one of the cloaks which shroud- ed him, and wrapped her in it; then raising her in his arms, hurried away as rapidly as if he were but carrying a child. Poquannum picked up a gun which lay in the snow beneath a fence, and removed a swathing cloth from its lock, as he followed the trail with un- deviating footsteps. So now, with dis- tant lunatic astonishment, the moon be- 223 Witching Ti~mes. [Aug., held Mark eloping with his wife from the clutches of law and order; and de- cided, perhaps, that it had not seen a prettier feat of the kind since the Iliac night on which pious Eneas shouldered his father, and ran away from the Grecians. For a quarter of a mile, the hale young colonist never stopped nor faltered under that dear burden. Po- quannum, then, took it pooseback, and carried it rapidly fifty rods further, when he again rendered it up to its rightful Owner. Mark saw the shore; he saw the trysting oak; he saw the wide free waste of waters; he bounded on with the exultation of escape; but, in the next moment, came a croak of alarm from the Indian. Pausing for one con- fused instant, the party looked back, and saw three or four shapes, like shadows, gliding after them with urgent speed over the long glittering snow- slopes. Setting Rachel on her feet, Mark bade her run for the oak; then, falling back with Poquannum, he fol- lowed her at a few yards distance. They had trampled ten rods further through the sodden drifts, when the foremost pursuer came up, almost with- in striking reach, and cried: Halt! I arrest you in the kings name. Stopping instantly, Mark seized the gun and presented it, saying: Stand back, Herrick, or I shall fire. The sheriff leaped aside with one bound, and forward with another, fol- lowed in the same manner by his party. The flint sparkled on the lock; but no report came, and no bullet flew; for the insidious snow had done evil work with the priming. Down went the gun, and there was a moment of desperate, hand- to-hand struggle. Mark was clutched by two men, and felt the hot rummy breath of Henn in his face, when he heard rapid steps behind him, and knew that Hilton was coming to the rescue. In an instant more, the captain of the guard stuck head-foremost in a snow- drift, and that part of him which re- mained visible, was tremendously bela- bored by a pair of the biggest feet that ever grew in Virginia. Mark polished off his other assailant, John Stacey, with a vigor which it gratified him all his subsequent life to remember. Leav- ing his victim at the bottom of a moist gully, he saw Poquannum trip up Her- rick, and draw his knife as if to scalp that eminent worshiper of Jugger- naut. He leaped forward quick enough to catch the Indians band and prevent the execution of his artistic design. Poquannum looked grieved and morti- fied at losing such a souvenir as the sheriffs hair; but there was no time to remonstrate, for other pursuers were now visible, chasing down the distant snow toward the scene of battle. With a parting kick for Stacey, and a stun- ning knock on the head for Herrick, the three conquerors saved their damp artillery, and made a hasty retreat to the boat. The sailors bent violently to their oars; the prow dashed climbing through floating bits of ice; they shot rapidly out over ripples of shadowed silver to the side of the Blunderbuss. The sails soon climbed bellying to their posts, and onward stole the little craft, gathering way as it advanced, until the shining shore disappeared behind it in a haze of moonlight. All right, my lass! Heres to ye, with respects, said Hilton, draining off a glass of rum and water at Rachel, as they sat in the little cabin. Whats to be done now! Why, snap yer little fingers at them psalm-singin lubbers, and turn in. Who but the old sarpent could have set Herrick arter us, I wonder, he continued. Landlord Stacey smelt it out, though, Ill warrant. Dashed old landshark! I wish he may be pison- ed with the water in his own rum. I never see one o them rum-peddlers as woutdnt sell yer soul to the devil in gill-glasses, and make him think they was half-pints. Behold now the champion of Saddu- cism in full flight, and our bloody, ortho- dox, law-and-order Juggernaut victori- ously exultant. What a happy old god he ought to be, and what delightful triumphal-cars he should ride in to Gallows Hill! But no, it is to be fear- ed that, like a gluttonous, short-sighted anaconda, he has so gorged himself with prey, that he will soon fall a victim to the popular indignation of this be- reaved Salem. CHAPTER xxviii. GooD-WIFE STANTON felt something very like complete despair when she rose in the morning and read a letter in Marks handwriting, which she discov-. ered on the table. Going to Virginia? Going to break jail for Rachel? Oh, he was surely killed or in prison; the 1857.] Witching Times. 229 guard had surely shot him or seized him. She hastened to his room, in hopes of finding him there, and discov- ering that the letter, real as it seemed to her fingers, was only a vision. But the room was empty; the bed had felt the weight of no slumberer that night; and a sudden remembrance of mysteri- ous looks and preparations told her that Mark had departed. She ran over to Mrs. Bowsons, and, with a face half piteous, half reproachful, thrust the letter into her hands. There, said she, thats what Ive got by marrying my son into your family ; and then the rough linen apron went up over her old face, and she fell a sobbing hehind it. After a few moments she begged Mistress Bowsons pardon for talking so to her; and you must excuse me, said she, for hes the only boy Ive got; and I haint got no other chil- dren. Then she wiped her eyes, and they both rushed out bareheaded into tho windy street, to learn some news of Mark and Rachel. They found the whole village in a turmoil about this audacious jail-breaking; and not a few of the villagers heartily delighted at the clean escape of the runaways. Meantime, Elder Noyse had also heard the news; but he did not hold a prayer-meeting over it, like those two foolish women, on the contrary he raved about his study in such a frenzy of rage that he absolutely wondered at his own bedlamite malignity. He seemed to himself to consist of two beingsone wbo gnashed forth curses, and foamed at the mouth with helpless fury; an- other who stood by in fear, horror, and amazement, responsible for all this wickedness, but having over it no con- trol. He began to question whether his mind were not shaken, or whether he had not been delivered over altogether to some outrageous devil. Calmness returned in a few days, although by no process that was creditable to his char- acter. Already it was evident that the divinity of Gallows Hill was losing his hold on the popular throat. The half- dozen true men who had opposed him from the first, were now listened to with respect; and the doughfaces on every side began, like true old rats, to escape from the sinking ship. The juries gained wonderfully in back-bone after the first two or three trials, actually de- livering their own conscientious verdicts right in the snarling teeth of the judges and elders; and, having arrived, with much fear and trembling, at one decis- ion of not guilty, they went on thereafter at such a rate that, when the session closed, Juggernaut had only bagged three victims out of his proposed fifty. Now, too, the commonalty, ay, and men in high position, talked about satis- faction for blood, satisfaction for wasted property; denouncing the atrocity of the courts; pointing out peijurers among the witnesses, and murderers among the judges. The Sadducees would evidently soon triumph; and what if they should be vindictive? What if the vox poruli should believe itself to be truly vex Dei, and say, Vengeance is mine, I will repay. Elder Noyse soon became so absorbed in the consideration of these questions, that he lost sight of many other things which had previously occupied his at- tention. He presently wondered, and then he regretted, that he should have been hurried so far as he had been, by any carnal affection for a mere mortal. The more frightened he got, the more / he repented and the more he tried to~ resume his religious habits and religio ~ feelings. He emptied his dram-hot~ into the snow, read his Bible frequentl~~ and struggled in prayer against Satan, for what was left of his rascally soul He thanked heaven for the sore but merited rebuke thiit had been admin tered to his spiritual pride, by letting him fall among divers mighty lusts, which had compassed him round like strong bulls of Bashan, and from which he had only escaped grievously bruised and wounded. He was particularly fervent that Providence would restrain the people, and not suffer it to take into its earthly hands the divine vengeance. Finally, feeling that it was wrong to tempt weak human nature by the occa- sions of evil, he rode away to Boston, and effected an exchange for one month with an elder of that city. Brother, said he, I desire that you will do your possibles to the healing of the sore wounds of my people. Woe unto me! I fear that I have been left unto my own blind ways in my ministrations for the half year past. I fear that my voice hath sounded unto my flock as the voice of one that reproacheth and blasphem- eth. I am unworthy to make my peace with them, until I have had time to commune with mine own heart, and con- 230 Witching Times. [Aug., vince it of all its erroi~s, and heedless- ness. Aid me, brother. Speak com- fortably unto my people, and I will endeavor to speak comfortably unto thine. And so, for five or six weeks, our penitent elder contrived to stay away from Salem, thus escaping a great part of the indignation which the villagers now vented on their late leaders. Ad- mirable indeed was the sermon which he preached, on the fast-day, when Judge Sewall stood up in church and handed in a written confession, asking pardon of God and the people for his mournful errors of judgment in the late trials. Very highly, also, did he approve the conduct of the judge in setting apart that day for an annual fast, so that he might never forget his sin and his hu- miliation. And when he found himself once more in Salem, he made no bones about confessing his own faults; asking the general forgiveness, and declaring that he humbly consecrated the resi- due of his life to bless mankind. His conscience was very much awake, and he had many fits of remorse, until all danger seemed to be over. Then he became spiritually calm again, and went on peaceably preaching very orthodox sermons; although he thought that he never quite recovered his former inward fervor and tranquillity. What a shabby, feeble, inane termination to that tragedy of soul which he had passed through; to all those subtle temptations, those fierce desires, those lengthened aposta- sies; to his deep-laid wicked plots, his bloodguiltiness and his keen conscious- ness of damnation! Yet, so it was; for such was his coward mind that he could not inflict any terrible punishment upon himself; dared not become a warning to mankind by openly bearing the cross of utter condemnation. He did no more than to moan inwardly some months with timorous remorse, and put on outwardly the broadest possible phylacteries of pious pretense. The end was not yet for him; he was reso- lute not to face its whole power now; he preferred that it should come upon him more insupportably hereafter. Meantime, Governor Phips issued a reprieve to all persons whatsoever, who were confessors of witchcraft, or had been convicted of witchcraft. Here- upon, we men of Massachusetts, lately so anxious to hang all and sundry, de- vised, circulated, signed and printed an address of thanks to his excellency. We styled him, one of the tribe of Zebulon, raised up from among our- selves, and spirited as vvell as comrnis - sioned to be the steersman of a vessel befogged in the mare mortuum of witch- craft, who so happily steered her course that she escaped shipwreck, and was again safely moored under the Cape of Good Hope; and who cut asunder the knot of witchcraft, more difficult to be dissolved than the famous Gordian one of old. We have jumped over time some- what rapidly, and must go back a few weeks to see how it turned out with Deacon Bowson and Teague. A day or two after Rachels escape, they were put on trial, and their affairs settled up in short order. The witnesses had few or no convulsions now, and for the most part seemed to have lost their memo- ries. Some could not recollect what they had formerly said about their afflic- tions. Others roundly confessed, with tears in their eyes, and shame in their faces, that they had belied both them- selves and their neighbors. Teague was fined for getting drunk on rum, but cleared of familiarity with any other kind of spirits. Deacon Bowson, very much to his dissatisfaction, was returned as non compos. The court appointed a conservator over him, with directions to either bring Sarah Carrier into complete quiet, or turn her out of the Bowson family. The energetic conservator did both; giving Sarah a tremendous whipping first, and then packing her off to live with Good-wife Stanton. People about Salem took the hint, so that nearly all the afflicted brats in the village got fioggings, and a number of grown up witnesses, even, such as Thomas Bibber, Bill Stacey, and John Ind4an, received three or four thrashings apiece from various stalwart avengers of public or private wrongs. John Bowson, deprived of his deacon- ship, wandered lamentably about the streets, much ridiculed and persecuted by mischievous urchins. They would gravely request his attendance at a witch communion, to be held at such a place on such an evening; and when the poor man arrived circumspectly at the time appointed, he would be saluted with showers of snowballs from some invisible ambuscade of delighted younk- ers. Between four or five months rolled 1857.] A Torch Hunt in Tennessee.. 231 away before Mistress Bowson and Good-wife Stanton got news of those fugitives in whom their hearts were bound up. In one of the earliest spring vessels from Virginia, came a little let- ter with divers corners and angles (like the outline of a house with several ga- bles), directed to these two expectant ladies, in Marks high round-hand writing. We will not trouble ourselves to describe the manner in which this priceless epistle was opened and read, and re-read, and spread out before heaven, with a joy and gratitude that could not be uttered. Dated, Norfolk in Virginia, March ye 2d, 1693, it ran as follows: My DEAR MOTHER AND isv DEAR AuNT: We have now bin ten Weeks safe among these kindly People of the Virginians, who are veey hospitable to us, as they are to all strangers. For which we feel toward them such an acknowledging disposition, that we would like to see them better favored with means of Grace and less given to strong liquors. But nothing can go beyond their freehearted behavyor, and their gentility of manners to us poor runaways, in especial the Captain who fetched us here, and would take no manner of reward for our voyage, saying he would expect our arrival home when we should be more able to spare our little Trea- sure. Mark fetched awayfifty pounds with him in our Exodus, so that, what with good friends here, we are in no peril of want. We hope and pray fervently that you have bin in no Peril of worse than want during the time that God has so well cared for us. Oh, have we not prayed for you, desiring that you might not be harmed by the distempers that afflict poor Salem. We get no news from the north as yet of any rartscularstses, so that we learn Nothing of ii~hat is hapuing to those we so love. Only we hear this from New York, that a reprieve has bin granted to those poor condemned persons, my late companions. Mark tells me leave so space to him, for which reason I close. Your loving Daughter and Neece, RACHEL STANTON. e DEAR MOTIIER: This is written both to you and to our aunt, Misstress Bowson, for fear some evil may have hapnd to one or other of you. We have a hope to sail from here in April with our kind Captain Hilton, who will stop at Newport, where, if we hear bad news from Salem, we remain; if not, doing on straight to you. But our friend Poquannum thinks he will stay here, because he finds it very warm, with plenty of drink and no great fear of dry whippings. Give kind salutations to all who desire news of us. Your affec. Son, MARE STANTON. A TORCH HUNT IN TENNESSEE. IN North America there are six well- defined species of deerthe moose (c. alces); the elk (Canadencis); the caribou (tarandus); the black-tail or mule deer (macrotis); the long-tail (leucurus); and the Virginian, or fallow deer (Virginianus). The deer of Louisiana (c. nemoralis) is supposed by some to be a different species from any of the above; so, also, is the mazama of Mexico (c. Mexicanus). It is more probable that these two kinds are only varieties of the cervus Virginianus the difference in color, and other re- spects, resulting from a difference in food, climate, and such like causes. Of the six species the last mentioned has the largest geographical range, and is the most generally known. Indeed, when the word deer is mentioned, it only is meant. It is the deer of America. The black-tails and long-tails are two species that may be called new. Though long known to trappers and hunters, they have been but lately de scribed by the scientific naturalist. Their habitat is the far west in Cali- fornia, Oregon, the high prairies, and the valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Up to a late period naturalists have had but little to do with those countries. For this reason their fauna has so long remained comparatively unknown. The geographical disposition of the other four species is curious. Each occupies a latitudinal zone. That of the caribou, or reindeer, extends furthest north. It is not found within the limits of the United States. The zone of the moose overlaps that of the caribou, but, on the other side, goes further south, as this species is met with along the extreme northern parts of the United States. The elk is next in order. Their range dove-tails into that of the moose1 but the elk roves still~ further into the temperate regions, being met with almost as far south as Texas. The fourth, the com- mon deer, embraces in his range the

A Torch Hunt in Tennessee 231-236

1857.] A Torch Hunt in Tennessee.. 231 away before Mistress Bowson and Good-wife Stanton got news of those fugitives in whom their hearts were bound up. In one of the earliest spring vessels from Virginia, came a little let- ter with divers corners and angles (like the outline of a house with several ga- bles), directed to these two expectant ladies, in Marks high round-hand writing. We will not trouble ourselves to describe the manner in which this priceless epistle was opened and read, and re-read, and spread out before heaven, with a joy and gratitude that could not be uttered. Dated, Norfolk in Virginia, March ye 2d, 1693, it ran as follows: My DEAR MOTHER AND isv DEAR AuNT: We have now bin ten Weeks safe among these kindly People of the Virginians, who are veey hospitable to us, as they are to all strangers. For which we feel toward them such an acknowledging disposition, that we would like to see them better favored with means of Grace and less given to strong liquors. But nothing can go beyond their freehearted behavyor, and their gentility of manners to us poor runaways, in especial the Captain who fetched us here, and would take no manner of reward for our voyage, saying he would expect our arrival home when we should be more able to spare our little Trea- sure. Mark fetched awayfifty pounds with him in our Exodus, so that, what with good friends here, we are in no peril of want. We hope and pray fervently that you have bin in no Peril of worse than want during the time that God has so well cared for us. Oh, have we not prayed for you, desiring that you might not be harmed by the distempers that afflict poor Salem. We get no news from the north as yet of any rartscularstses, so that we learn Nothing of ii~hat is hapuing to those we so love. Only we hear this from New York, that a reprieve has bin granted to those poor condemned persons, my late companions. Mark tells me leave so space to him, for which reason I close. Your loving Daughter and Neece, RACHEL STANTON. e DEAR MOTIIER: This is written both to you and to our aunt, Misstress Bowson, for fear some evil may have hapnd to one or other of you. We have a hope to sail from here in April with our kind Captain Hilton, who will stop at Newport, where, if we hear bad news from Salem, we remain; if not, doing on straight to you. But our friend Poquannum thinks he will stay here, because he finds it very warm, with plenty of drink and no great fear of dry whippings. Give kind salutations to all who desire news of us. Your affec. Son, MARE STANTON. A TORCH HUNT IN TENNESSEE. IN North America there are six well- defined species of deerthe moose (c. alces); the elk (Canadencis); the caribou (tarandus); the black-tail or mule deer (macrotis); the long-tail (leucurus); and the Virginian, or fallow deer (Virginianus). The deer of Louisiana (c. nemoralis) is supposed by some to be a different species from any of the above; so, also, is the mazama of Mexico (c. Mexicanus). It is more probable that these two kinds are only varieties of the cervus Virginianus the difference in color, and other re- spects, resulting from a difference in food, climate, and such like causes. Of the six species the last mentioned has the largest geographical range, and is the most generally known. Indeed, when the word deer is mentioned, it only is meant. It is the deer of America. The black-tails and long-tails are two species that may be called new. Though long known to trappers and hunters, they have been but lately de scribed by the scientific naturalist. Their habitat is the far west in Cali- fornia, Oregon, the high prairies, and the valleys of the Rocky Mountains. Up to a late period naturalists have had but little to do with those countries. For this reason their fauna has so long remained comparatively unknown. The geographical disposition of the other four species is curious. Each occupies a latitudinal zone. That of the caribou, or reindeer, extends furthest north. It is not found within the limits of the United States. The zone of the moose overlaps that of the caribou, but, on the other side, goes further south, as this species is met with along the extreme northern parts of the United States. The elk is next in order. Their range dove-tails into that of the moose1 but the elk roves still~ further into the temperate regions, being met with almost as far south as Texas. The fourth, the com- mon deer, embraces in his range the 232 A Torch Hunt in Tennessee. temperate and torrid zones of both North and South America, while he is not found in higher latitudes than the southern frontier of Canada. The common deer, therefore, inhabits a greater area than any of his con- geners, and is altogether the best known animal of his kind. Most persons know him by sight. He is the smallest of the American species, being generally about five feet in length by three in height, and a little more than 100 lbs. in weight. He is exceedingly well formed and graceful; his horns are not so large as those of the stag, or red-deer; like his, they are annually caducous, falling off in the winter and returning in the spring. They are rounded below, but in the upper part slightly flattened or palmated; the antlers do not rise upward, but protrude forward over the brow in a threatening manner. There is no regular rule, however, for their shape and set, and their number also varies in different individuals. The horns are also present only in the male or buck; the doe is without them. They rise from a rough bony pro- tuberance on the forehead, called the burr. In the first year the horns of this species are in the shape of two short straight spikes; hence the name spike bucks given to the animals of that age. In the second season a small antler appears on each horn, and the number increases until the fourth year, when they obtain a full head-dress of branching honors. The antlers, or, as they aro sometimes called, points, often increase in number with the age of the animal, until as many as fifteen make their appearance. This, however, is rare. Indeed, the food of the animal has much to do with the growth of his horns. In an ill-fed specimen they do not grow to such size nor branch so luxuriantly as in a well-fed fat buck. XVe have said that the horns fall annually. This takes place in winter in December and January. They are rarely found, however, as they are soon eaten up by the small-gnawing animals. The new horns begin to grow as soon as the old ones have dropped off. During, the spring and summer they are covered with a soft velvety membrane, and they are then described as being in the velvet. The blood circulates freely through this ufembrane, and it is highly sensitive, so that a blow upon the horns at this season produces [Aug., great pain. By the time the rutting season commences (in October), the velvet has peeled off, and the horns are then in order for battleand they need be, for the battles of the bucks during this period are terrible indeed. Fre- quently their horns get locked in such conflicts, and, being unable to separate them, the combatants remain in this situation until both perish by hunger, or fall a prey to their natural enemythe wolf. Many pairs of horns have been found in the forest thus locked together, and there is not a museum in America without this singu- lar souvenir of mutual destruction. The hair of the American deer is thickly set and smooth on the surface. In winter it grows longer and is of a grayish hue; the deer is then, accord- ing to hunter phraseology, in the gray. In the summer a new coat is obtained, which is reddish, or calf- colored. The deer is~hen in the red. Towards the end of August, or in autumn, the whole coat has a blue tinge. This is called in the blue. At all times the animal is of a whitish appear- ance on the throat and belly and insides of the legs. The skin is toughest when in the red, thickest in the blue, and thinnest in thu gray. In the blue it makes the best buckskin, and is, therefore, most valuable when obtained in autumn. The fawns of this species are beautiful little creatures; they are fawn-colored and showered all over with white spots which disappear towards the end of their first summer, when they gradually get into the winter gray. The American deer is a valuable animal. Most of the buckskin of coin- merce is the product of its hides, and the horns are put to many uses. Its flesh, besides supplying the tables of the wealthy, has been for centuries almost the whole sustenance of whole tribes of Indians. Its skins have furnished them with tents, beds, and clothing, its intestines with bowstrings, ball raquets, and snow shoes; and in the chase of this creature they have found almost their sole occupation as well as amusement. With so many enemies it is a matter of wonder that this spechJ~has not long been extirpated; not onl~aas man been its constant and persevering destroyer, but it has a host of enemies besides, in the cougar, the lynxes, the wolverene, and the wolves. The last are its worst 1857.] A Torch Hunt in Tennessee. 233 foes. Hhnters state that for one deer killed by themselves, five fall a prey to the wolves. These attack the young and feeble, and soon run them down. The old deer can escape from a wolf by superior speed; but in remote dis- tricts, where the wolves are numerous, they unite in packs of eight or ten, and follow the deer as hounds do, and even with a somewhat similar howling. They run by the nose, and unless the deer can reach water, and thus escape them, they will tire it down in the end. Fre- quently the deer, when thus followed in winter, makes for the ice. upon which he is soon overtaken by his hungry pursuers. Notwithstanding all this, the American deer is still common in most of the states, and in some of them even plentiful. Where the wolves have been thinned off by bounty laws, and the deer protected during the breeding season by legislative enact- ments, as is the case in New York, their number is said to be on the increase. ~The markets of all the great cities in America are supplied with venison al- most as cheap as beef, which shows that the deer are yet far from being scarce. The habits of this creature are well known. It is gregarious in its natural habitat. The herd is usually led by an old buck, who watches over the safety of the others while feeding. When an enemy approaches, this sentinel and leader strikes the ground sharply with his hoofs, snorts loudly, and emits a shrill whistle; all the while fronting the danger with his horns set forward in a threatening manner. So long as he does not attempt to run, the others con- tinue to browse with confidence; but the moment their leader starts to fly all the rest follow, each trying to be for& most. They are timid upon ordinary occasions, but the bucks in the rutting season are bold, and when wounded and brought to bay, are not to be ap- proached with impunity. They can inflict terrible blows, both with their hoofs and antlers; and hunters who have come too near them on such occasions have with difficulty escaped being gored to death. They are foes to the snake PThe, and kill the most venomous serp~ ~s without being bit- ten. The rattlesnake hides from their attack. Their mode of destroying these creatures is similar to that em- ployed by the peccary (dicotyles) which is, by pouncing down upon them with the four hoofs held close together, and thus crushing them to death. The hostility of the peccary to snakes is easily understood, as no sooner has it killed one, than it makes a meal of it. With the deer, of course, such is not the case, as they are not carnivorous. Its enmity to the reptile race can be explained only by supposing that it possesses a knowledge of their danger- ous qualities, and that they should, therefore, be got rid of. The food of the American deer con- sists of twigs, leaves of trees, and grass. They are fonder of the tree- shoots than the grass; but their favor- ite morsels are the buds and flowers of nym~phce, especially those of the com- mon pond-lily. To get these, they wade into the lakes and rivers like the moose, and like them are good swim- mers. They love the shady forest better than the open ground, and they haunt the neighborhood of streams. These afford them protection, as well as a means of quenching thirst. When pursued, their first thought is to make for water, in order to elude the pursuer, which they often succeed in doing, throwing both dogs and wolves off the scent. In summQr, they seek the wa- ter to cool themselves, and get free from flies and musquitoes that pester them sadly. They are fond of salt, and repair in great numbers to the salines, or salt springs, that abound in all parts of America. At these they lick up quan- tities of earth along with the salt efflo- rescence, until vast hollows are formed in the earth, termed, from this circum- stance, salt licks. The consequence of this dirt-eating is, that the excre- ment of the animal comes forth in hard pellets; and by seeing this, the hun- ters can always tell when they are in the neighborhood of a lick. The does produce in spring-in May or June, according to the latitude. They bring forth one, two, and very rarely three fawns at a birth. Their attachment to their young is proverbial. The mothers treat them with the great- est tenderness, and hide them while they go to feed. The bleating of the fawn at once recalls the mother to its side. The hunter often imitates this with success, using either his own voice, or a call, made out of a cane joint. An anecdote, told by Parry, illustrates this maternal fondness: 234 The mother, finding her young one could not swim as fast as herself, was observed to stop repeatedly, so as to allow the fawn to come up with her; and, having landed first, stood watching it with trembling anxiety, as the boat chased it to the shore. She was repeat- edly fired at, but remained immovable, until her offspring landed ia safety, when they both cantered out of sight. The American deer is hunted for its flesh, its hide, and the sport. There are many modes of hunting it. The simplest and most common is that which is termed still~ hunting. In this the hunter is armed with his rifle or deer-guna heavy fowling-piece and steals forward upon the deer as he would upon any other game. Covert is not so necessary as silence in such a hunt. This species of deer, like some antelopes, is of a curious disposition, and will sometimes allow the hunter to approach in full view without attempting to run off. But the slightest noise, such as the rustling of dry leaves or the snap- ping of a stick, will alarm him. His sense of hearing is extremely acute. His nose, too, is a keen one, and he often scents the hunter, and makes off long before the latter has got within sight or range. It is necessary in still hunting to leave the dog at home; unless, indeed, he be an animal trained to the purpose. Another species of hunting is trail- ing the deer in snow. This is done either with dogs or without them. The snow must be frozen over, so as to cut the feet of the deer, which puts them in such a state of fear and pain that the hunter can easily get within shot. I have assisted in killing twenty in a single morning in this way; and that, too, in a district where deer were not accounted plentiful. The ~drive is the most exciting mode of hunting deer; and the one practiced by those who hun~t for the sport. This is done with hounds, and the horsemen who follow them also carry gun ~. In fact, there is hardly a species of hunting in America in which fire-arms are not used. Several individuals are required to make up a deer drive. They are generally men who know the lay of the country, with all its ravines and passes. One or two only accompany the hounds as drivers, while the rest get between the place where the dogs [Aug., are beating the cover and some river toward which it is calculated the startled game will run. They deploy themselves into a long line, whi